No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory--
He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping,
No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping;--
And though from stage coffers his wages be taken,
He'd better be paid than the office forsaken.
Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers,
Together the people would be by the ears;
Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave,
Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave.
We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes,
How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries;
And as for the taxes, Judge Bayley can prove
They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love.
Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore,
All kings have had wisdom and riches in store:
And Britain, sublimely renowned in story,
Has become of the world th' admiration and glory,
By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt,
Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet.
But stop--to amuse thee I'll give a relation
Of the sights I beheld at the King's Coronation;
Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign,
Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.
The morning was fine when the boats came in sight,
And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight--
Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking,
Convinc'd them the watermen only were joking.
"What a d--n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never
A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river!
No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk--damnation!
They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation!"
Then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd,
And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd:
A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd,
To run with good wine, in the centre was found,
And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast,
And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.
Three pants to run ale--'twas a glorious sight!
Two cranes and two scaffolds--the butchers' delight.
From Church now the Mayor and his company ride,
And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side,
Hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head--
(And her effigy more than the devil they dread)
The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding,
And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding;
Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen,
Though a damnable blot on their loyalty, I ween!
Releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill,
By drinking the king's health upon the Sandhill.
But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd,
The crowd was so furious, no Tory could face't;
And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow,
With the crown on his head!--people said he was mellow;
But I took him to be some base Radical body,
Who wish'd folk to think that the King was a noddy,
For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour,
The people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour;
While many among them cried, Pull the knave down!
Such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown!
He's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus,
As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh--e, and rob us.
So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon'd away;
But Archy, more bold as they pranc'd round the fray,
To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching)
"What treasonable stuff those damn'd Radicals are hatching!
D'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown,
Go call out the soldiers to pull yon knave down."
"Drive on," quoth the Mayor, by this time come about,
"There's no time to talk while the Philistines are out."
More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew
The den of corruption, with th' Noodles in view.
"Fetch the soldiers, I say--let the streets swim with blood!
See the crown is insulted, and all that is good,
When erected this morn, what a sight to behold!
'Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold!
'Tis sacrilege! treason! hell groans at the sight!
Fetch the soldiers, and put the mad rabble to flight:
We crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine,
That the King's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine;
And shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us?
No, call them out quickly--the King will reward us."
As he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall,
And rapt'rous delight animated them all.
What savage barbarians those English are grown,
To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown!
'Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly
From the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye.
To St. Nicholas' Square then I posted away,
Where Typo's high window peep'd over the fray;
And such an Ox roasting was there to be seen!
'Twas a bad loyal meeting for all but the Queen.
The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high,
To honour his Majesty no one durst try.
The scaffold with tipstaves and botchers was clad,
Who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had;
And holding the head up, began to huzza,
But a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their _jaw_:
Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil,
For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil.
St. Nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began,
And seem'd to say, "Loyal bucks, do what you can!"
As fast as the butchers the collops threw out,
The people return'd them with many a shout;
And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd,
Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd.
A crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane,
Call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain;
The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror,
And many a poor Tory's heart trembled with horror.
An Officer[28] vent'ring imprudently near,
Receiv'd the same fate as the Coach in the rear;
So high was the Radical sentiment tow'ring,
That public expression was past all enduring.
In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down,
For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown;
At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray,
Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away;
And put in its place, which was fair to be seen,
"The Queen that Jack lov'd," and cried, "God save the Queen!"
Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar,
And shook the glass windows along the Tyne shore.
The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage,
And dragg'd round the town with republican rage,
Till deposited safely i' th' Mansion-house yard,
Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard;
From whence, in accordance with Archibald's wish,
It was sunk in the Tyne--to make broth for the fish.
So that Radical bodies were highly to blame,
When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, "For shame!"
A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded,
And fought for the _wish-wash_ till nearly half-drowned.
But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange,
The people were furious, and sought for revenge,
By drinking "The Queen!" with astounding delight,
While the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight.
But to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout,
Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap, and shout.
"Fight away, pigs, (quoth Archy) you make us fine fun!"
But when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune.
In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast,
For the Queen rul'd the heart, and the people the roast.
Poor Anvil[29] disgrac'd himself, some people say,
To ask the Mayor leave on the Race-ground to pray;
In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder
But they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under.
What a "punch"-loving people! in less than an hour,
To see Lambton's horse, they were all on the Moor;
But vex'd that their favourite's courser should lose,
They car'd not to stay till the Races might close.
Returning at length, like a tempest they came,
Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame
And levell'd the pants with the spoil of the day,
While a Radical gave them a touch of his lay.
In vain the peace-officers handled their staves,
And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves;
'Twas the Head of the Church who created the day,
And salvation attended a loyal display!
But passive obedience was basely rejected,
And the Head of the Church very little respected;
Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout,
So anxious he seem'd for a Manchester rout:
But, thank their good stars, they go free from the labour
Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour.
In its socket was sinking the Radical taper,
Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper.
It cost them two thousand, I mean th' Corporation!
What a round sum, dear Bob, for a King's Coronation!
But surely I need not the money begrudge,
For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin,
BOB FUDGE.
Footnote 26: The first Epistle, "Radical Monday," a satirical
description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819.--The
second Epistle (unpublished) "Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday," on
the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the
Queen, &c.
Footnote 27: Lord Castlereagh.
Footnote 28: A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time
the Mail Coach passed, decorated in honour of the Coronation, was,
together with the Coach, pelted by the populace.
Footnote 29: An Independent Methodist Preacher, who, forgetting the
commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the
highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself
and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor. The worthy
Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the _interests_ of the
"church as by law established;" or, more properly speaking, the
interests of the established Clergy. Anvil is also celebrated by Bob
Fudge, in his First Epistle, entitled "Radical Monday," as one of the
orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th October, 1819.
BOB FUDGE'S POSTSCRIPT
_To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting,
on Monday, 11th October, 1819._
Since the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out,
Which in Gotham have made a most damnable rout:
Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick,
With the RADS[30] he's been playing _Sir Archy Mac Syc._--
While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some _Green Bag Supplies_,
Which--alas! for his Worship--have turn'd out _all lies_!
_A stark staring Parson_,[31] to add to the store,
A budget has sent to the noble Strathmore;
And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook,
A _thumper_ has palm'd on a great Northern Duke!
Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne,
Against poor old Gotham did also combine;
By supporting _Bold Archy's_ most libellous letter,
He has added another strong link to the fetter!
The rivet he's clos'd, which no mortal can sever,
And set now's the "_Bright Star of Heaton_" for ever!
But let him beware--for "_a Rod is in pickle_,"
Which, sooner or later, "_his Toby will tickle!_"
Both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms,
Of the RADS on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms;
'Tis all a sly hoax--the _Alarmists alarming_,
For there's not the least symptom of _Rising_ or _Arming_!
Footnote 30: The Radicals, or real Reformers.
Footnote 31: Parson Bl--k--n.
BLIND WILLY'S FLIGHT.
Tune--"Betsey Baker."
A whirlwind, of a serious kind,
Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir,
Which gen'ral consternation spread
About a month ago, sir:
It caught Blind Willy in the street,
He mounted like a feather;
His friends, alarm'd, cried out, Alas!
Poor soul! he's gone for ever!
Fal de ral, &c.
But soon our Minstrel gay was seen,
By thousands of the people,
In rapid flight, swift as the kite
Bound o'er Saint Nich'las' steeple;
He pass'd the Shot Tower like a dart,
Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir,
And down the Tyne he glided fine,
And bolted off to sea, sir.
Fal de ral, &c.
'Tis said that he to London got,
But was forc'd back to Shields, sir,
And up to Swalwell, quick as thought,
Was carried o'er the fields, sir.
Round Axwell Park our roving spark
Was borne amidst the squall, sir,
And swiftly passing Elswick House,
Reach'd Cock-o-lorum Hall, Sir.
Fal de ral, &c.
Thus tempest-toss'd, to Blagdon cross'd,
And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir--
Then mounting high, did rapid fly
As far as Prestwick Car, sir.
Newcastle next he hover'd o'er,
Quite calmly in the air, sir,
And landing at the Mansion House,
He din'd with Mr. Mayor, Sir.
Fal de ral, &c.
THE NEW MARKETS.
Tune--"Canny Newcassel."
Wey, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene,
Like some change that yen's seen iv a play-house;
Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean
Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse:
Where the brass hez a' cum fra nebody can tell,
Some says yen thing and some says another--
But whe ever lent Grainger't aw knaw very well,
That they mun have at least had a fother.
About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout,
For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell;
For a bell or a market there isent a doubt
We can bang them at canny Newcassel.
Wor gratitude Grainger or somebody's arl'd,
Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther,
To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld
Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother.
But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind,
Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is;
Genteeler company where can ye find
Than wor butchers, green wives, and tripe ladies?
About Lunnen, &c.
Ti see the wires haggle about tripe and sheep-heads,
Or washing their greens at a fountain,
Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads,
And had nowt but their sins ti be counting;
There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel
May be heard on that classical grund, sir,
Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal,
Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir.
About Lunnen, &c.
When them queer Cockney folk cum stravagin this way
(Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them)
They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say,
That we've clapt an extinguisher on them:
It's ne use contending, they just may shut up,
For it's us can astonish the stranger;
They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot,
What's the use on't?--they haven't a Grainger.
About Lunnen, &c.
THE CHANGES ON THE TYNE.
Tune--"Mitford Galloway."
I'll sing you a bit of a ditty,
I hope you will not think it lang,
At least if it tires your patience,
I'll verra suin shorten my sang;
It's all about comical changes,
And new-fangled things on the Tyne,
I've witness'd since aw was a skipper,
And that isn't verra lang syne.
CHORUS.
These are the days of improvement,
We're a' gettin wiser, you see,
The skuilmaister's getting abroad,
And he'll finish us off to a tee.
Baith sides of the Tyne, aw remember,
Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields,
But now there is nought but big furnaces
Down frae Newcastle to Shields;
And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone,
Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam,
The grass is all gaen, and the farmers
Can nowther get butter or cream.
These are the days, &c.
For making their salts and their soda,
They formerly us'd a kail-pot,
With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley
They were quite satisfied wi' their lot;
But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker,
Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise,
For he's lately built up a lang chimley,
Within a few feet o' the skies!
These are the days, &c.
There's Losh's big chimley at Walker,
Its very awn height makes it shake,
And if Cookson's again tumble ower,
It will make a new quay for the Slake;
To talk of your fine foreign pillars,
It's enough for to make a man sick,
The great tower of _Babble_ compar'd
Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick.
These are the days, &c.
For three-pence to Shields aw remember
In a wherry the folk us'd to gan,
And that was consider'd by many
A very respectable plan;
But now we've got sixpenny steamers,
A stylish conveyance, I'm sure,
For there you've a tune on the fiddle,
And a lie on the sands for an hour.
These are the days, &c.
Then ower the land we'd a whiskey,
Which went twice or thrice in the day,
Which us'd to take all the fine gentry,
And quite in an elegant way;
But now the awd whiskey's neglected,
And nothing but coaches suit us,
Lord help us! there's nothing gans now
But a hyke in the new omnibus.
These are the days, &c.
At one time wor ships were all loaded
Sae canny and snug by the keels,
And then a' wor maisters made money,
And keelmen were a' happy chiels;
But now your fine drops de the business!
Lord bless us! aw never saw such,
Though some of wor owners aw's freeten'd
Hev getten a _drop_ ower much.
These are the days, &c.
And then an aud horse brought a waggon
A' the way frae the pits to the staith,
But now it appears pretty certain,
They'll verra suin dee without baith,
For now their fine steam locomotives
A' other inventions excels,
Aw've only to huik on the waggons,
And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels.
These are the days, &c.
New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms,
Aw never, maw soul! saw the like,
We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy,
And leave ourselves not a turnpike;
Then horses will live without working,
And never more trot in a team,
And instead of carrying their maisters,
They'll get themsels carried by steam.
These are the days, &c.
Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome,
And what they call quite pictoresk,
Ne poet can de them half justice
If he writes all his life at his desk;
They're hilly, and howley, and lofty,
Presenting fresh views every turn,
And they'd luik like Vesuvius or Etna,
If we could only get them to burn.
These are the days, &c.
And as for aud canny Newcastle,
It's now quite a wonderful place,
Its New Market, nothing can match it
In elegance, beauty, and grace;
Could our forefathers only just see it,
My eye! they would start wi' surprise,
I fancy I just hear them saying--
"What's come of the buggy pigsties?"
These are the days, &c.
And this is a' duin by one Grainger--
A perfect Goliah in bricks,
He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow
In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks;
He's only to say, "Cock-o-lorum,
Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane,"
And new houses spring up in an instant--
Of the audins you can't see a stane.
These are the days, &c.
In sculler-boats, not very lang syne,
The Shields folk cross'd ower the Tyne,
But now we have got a big steamer,
And cuts quite a wonderful shine;
And one that we've got down at Scotland,
Delights a' the folks with a ride,
For it gans back and forward sae rapid,
That it just makes a trip in a tide.
These are the days, &c.
I think I've now told you, my hinnies,
The whole of the changes I've seen,
At least a' the whirligig fashions
That I have been able to glean;
So the next time we meet a' together,
Some other improvements I'll get,
And then we shall make worsels happy,
And try a' wor cares to forget.
These are the days, &c.
=On the Attempt to remove the Custom House from Newcastle to Shields, in
1816.=
THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.
Tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear
A strange and a wonderful story,
Of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd Gotham's shore,
Where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory.
On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House,
Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right;
Now the sons of Gotham had sworn o'er a dram,
That to Gotham it soon should take flight.
A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent,
A son of the knife and the steel, sirs;
And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause,
The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs.
To London they came, through the high road to fame,
Their hearts were both merry and staunch:
Of success confident, to the Treasury they went,
And demanded they might have a Branch!
False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success,
Rejoicing, they blaz'd, without doubt;
'Great Rome,' they now say, 'was not built in one day;
'We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!'
While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig
The Mail came one day, in a hurry:
'What's the news?' say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke,
'No Branch!--so Newcastle be merry.'
'No Branch!' was the cry, re-echoed the sky,
And sent down to Gotham a volley;
Where the prospect is bad, 'for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad,
Or relapse into sad melancholy.
So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare,
Nor think that Newcastle you'll bend;
Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan,
And let each his own calling attend.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE TREE, &c.
Tune--"The Quayside Shaver."
Ye folks of Newcassel, so gen'rous, advance,
And listen awhile to my humourous strain;
'Tis not the fag end of a fairy romance,
Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain:
'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care,
And with Newcassel Int'rest well dung'd was the root;
And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share,
They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.
The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied
To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed:
He flutter'd his wings, then he bade them provide
A Memorial, to send off to London with speed.
His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force,
And messengers chose, who, without more delay,
Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course,
And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway.
Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his glass,
And with anxious concern took a squint to the south;
If I don't now behold (may you prove me an ass)
A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth.
The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation,
Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy;
A person was sent for to plan the foundation,
While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry.
There was one, half seas over, sang 'Little Tom Horner,'
While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat;
Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner,
Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.
A full brandy bottle came smack through a window,
And hit on the temple a canty old wife;
"Don't murmur," say they, "were you burnt to a cinder,
"We're able to grant you a pension for life."
Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast,
Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be;
And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast,
"That grass might soon grow upon Newcassel Kee."
But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside;
"No Branch!" was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk:
Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd,
But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.
So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit,
'Twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels;
Instead of a Custom-house Branch, 'twould be fit
That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields.
We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn
The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.
By what you have heard, you may also discern,
That premature joy's the forerunner of pain.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.
Tune--"Yo heave O."
The joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet,
And tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew;
Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet,
'Poor Jack,' 'Rule Britannia' and 'Yo heave O.'
Some grog were freely quaffing,
Like horses some were laughing;
Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew;
The Branch, they cried, we've got,
And with it, well we wot,
Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row.
The Newcastle deputation, no doubt on't, swagger'd much, sir,
Expecting our Pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been;
But too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic Butcher,
Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen,
Spite of wheedling and of sneering,
Bamboozling and queering,
He to his purpose stuck so firm, so true, and so staunch,
The Town Clerk and his chums,
Stood whistling on their thumbs,
Astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch.
And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated,
Why longer should the _County Courts_ Newcastle proudly grace?
We wise-ones of North Shields, tho' reckon'd _addle-pated_,
For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place.
Yon space[32] which----'s skill,
Seems destin'd ne'er to fill
With structures worthy Athens' or Corinth's proudest day;
Yon space! O is it not
The very, very spot
Where the County Courts their splendour so massive should display?
If once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum,
The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew,
That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum,
(Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No.
And when the whim impells,
To eclipse the Dardanelles;
The old Castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave,
To brave the billow's shocks,
On the dread Black Midden rocks,
However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve.