"Gude bye, canny Pee-dee! Gude bye tiv maw keels!
Aw'll never see Mally nor bairns ony mair,
For if aw's not deed, aw's speechless, aw'll swear!"
Fal, lal, &c.
Wiv a greet deal to de they gat him to rise;
But when he gat up, what was his surprise,
When he sought for the hole where the bullet had gyen,
But sought it in vain, for he cuddent find yen.
Fal, lal, &c.
"By gock!" out he roars, "aw ken how it's been--
Sic a comical trick, aw's sure, never was seen;
Faix, bad as it is, it might hev been warse,
It's come in at maw gob, and gyen out at----."
Fal, lal, &c.
JOSSY'S NAG'S HEAD.
Tune--"A rampant Lion is my Sign."
All you who've got an hour to spare,
And wish to spend it merry,
Go not to houses of ill-fame,
Nor sport with Tom and Jerry:
Direct your course to Armfield's house,
Where none the least alarm feels,
Where mirth and fun reign uncontroll'd,
All in Josiah Armfield's.
CHORUS.
Then drink about and merry be,
Let each one fill his station,
And ne'er despise a flowing pot,
When bent on recreation.
In winter, when the weather's cold,
The pinching frost may starve you,
You'll find a fire to your desire,
A buxom lass to serve you:
Her smiles are like the flowers in May,
Her conversation charms weel:
Far be the fellow takes her in,
While selling drink at Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.
Now should you know the art of war,
The news may lead your mind there;
Or if inclin'd to grace the bar,
Some of your cloth you'll find there:
Mock trials, hot debates go on,
Yet seldom any harm feel,
The counsellors plead your cause for nought,
Law's cheap at Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.
Next in the tap-room take a peep,
There's eggs and pie-folk dealing;
Some try their luck at single toss,
And other some are stealing:
The bakky smoke ascends in clouds,
Yet none will say he harm feels;
You'd swear you were near Etna's Mount,
Instead of Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.
The sailors sing their dangers o'er,
When sailing on the high seas;
Says Donald frae Fife, "I've left the North,
Where Parry wad lost his ideas."
"Come, d--n!" says Durham lad, "leet my pipe,
And give us nyen o' your yarn reels;
But pay the quart--Ise be the next,
We'll hev a spree at Armfield's."
Then drink about, &c.
There's Baggie Will, he sings all fours;
And faith he sings it rarely;
There's Castle Dean plagues Canny Pit Sark,
And sings, he's lost her fairly;
The Teazer he provokes the flame,
Till a' the house quite warm feels:
The Cobbler chaunts the Cuddy sang,
Half-cock'd, in Jossy Armfield's.
Then drink about, &c.
Box number one's a Tennis Court,
For those of fistic valour;
And should you want to grace the ring,
Must enter as a scholar.
The Hackney drivers stand about,
Until their dowps they warm feel;
Then drink their purl, and march away--
Huzza! for Jossy Armfield.
Then drink about, &c.
THE APRIL GOWK;
Or, THE LOVERS ALARMED.
A CASTLE-GARTH DITTY.
Tune--"Jenny choak'd the Bairn."
Ye worthy friends of April Gowk,
That like a bit o' spree,
Pray lay your jargon a' aside,
And listen unto me;
For love's intrigues disturb the wigs
Of most o' men on earth;
And so, of late, it caught the pate
Of pious Parson Garth.
This worthy man went soon to bed,
Upon the last o' March,
And what his mind was running on,
'Tis needless now to search;
His rib asleep, down stairs he'd creep--
When lo! to his surprise,
A pair of boots, below the seat,
Stood right before his eyes.
He went to rouse his darling spouse,
And said, "You plainly see
There's some one here that wants to make
An April Gowk o' me.
Oh! dress yoursel', do take the bell,
Your petticoat put on:
They're now in quod--I hope to God
It's not my brother John."
He took a stick, and follow'd quick
Unto the lasses' room:
Come out! says she; Come out! says he,
The Kitty is your doom!
While on the bell she did play knell,
Poor Johnny, pale, came forth,
All in dismay, like potters' clay,
Stood pious Parson Garth!
A Chamber Council there was held,
All in this naked plight;
The dire alarm had brought a swarm
O' guardians o' the night:
In vain they strove to gain his love,
His wrath for to appease,
He swore he'd have their boxes search'd,
And cried--Produce the keys!
They nothing found that he could own--
His heart more callous grew,
He tore their caps, destroy'd their hats--
Them on the floor he threw:
Like pilgrims setting out, unshod,
To prison they were sent,
To dread their penance, like the sweep,
Until they should repent.
To free the girls from guilt and shame,
And have the matter clear'd,
Those sweetly serenading "Two-
Foot Carpenters"[49] appear'd.
Tho' Willy cannot get his boots,
For them he does not care--
They won the day!--"none but the brave
Deserve to win the fair."
Should you not know this worthy man--
A man of steady gait,
A pensive look affects as tho'
He'd something in his pate:
Ambition and presumption too
In him have taken birth,
And fix'd a stigma on his name--
"The Hydra of the Garth!"
Footnote 49: Cloggers.
THE SKIPPER'S MISTAKE.
Tune--"The Chapter of Accidents."
Two jovial souls, two skippers bold,
For Shields did sail one morning,
In their awd keel, black as the Deil,
All fear and danger scorning.
The sky look'd bright, which prophesied
A fair and glorious day, man;
But such a thick Scotch mist cam on,
They could not see their way, man.
Fal, lal, &c.
They pull'd about, frae reet to left,
Not kennin what to dee, man,
When poor Pee-dee began to fret,
Lest they should drive to sea, man.
Says Geordy, Should wor voyage be lang,
We've little for our guts, man;
There's nowt belaw but half a loaf,
Some tripe, and a nowt's foot, man.
Fal, lal, &c.
They drove as far as Jarrow Slake,
When Geordy bawl'd aloud, man
Smash! marrow, ye hae been at skuel,
Come find our latitude, man;
Gan down into the huddock, Jack,
Fetch up the Reading-Easy--
If we should be far off at sea,
I doubt it winna please ye.
Fal, lal, &c.
They studied hard, byeth lang and sair,
Though nyen o' them could read, man,
When Geordy on a sudden cries,
Aw hev 'er in my heed, man.
Come, let us pray to be kept free
Frae danger and mischance, man;
We're ower the bar!--there's nowt for us
But Holland, Spain, or France, man!
Fal, lal, &c.
At length the day began to clear,
The sun peep'd through the dew, man,
When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk
Stood fair within their view, man.
They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke
Which lately gar'd them quake, man:
They lay, instead of Spain or France,
Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man.
Fal, lal, &c.
May wealth and commerce still increase,
And bless our native isle, man,
And make each thriving family
In happiness to smile, man.
May vict'ry round Britannia's brow
Her laurels still entwine, man,
The coal-trade flourish more and more
Upon the dingy Tyne, man.
Fal, lal, &c.
NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;
_Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society_.
BY R. EMERY.
Tune--"Mr. Frost."
As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon,
We gat to ROBIN HOOD'S, wor worldly cares to droon--
And there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang--
It's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang.
Romti bomti bom, &c.
In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree,
A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;--
He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse,
It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse.
Romti bomti bom, &c.
He talk'd 'bout TEMP'RANCE CLUBS, that now are a' the go,
And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe.
We quickly gav consent, wor Friend then led the way,
Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay.
Romti bomti bom, &c.
There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen,
And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen--
He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt,
And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt.
Romti bomti bom, &c.
Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan,
But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can
'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise,
And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies.
Romti bomti, &c.
Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem,
And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem;
But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine,
Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine.
Romti bomti, &c.
A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon,
While Peggy, maw poor lass, was work'd byeth up an' doon;
He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff,
To be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh.
Romti bomti bom, &c.
When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think--
Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink:
Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw,
Give me Newcassel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw.
Romti bomti bom, &c.
THE PITMAN'S PAY;
_Or, A Night's Discharge to Care_.
I sing not here of warriors bold--
Of battles lost or victories won--
Of cities sack'd, or nations sold,
Or any deeds by tyrants done.
I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares--
Their labour hard and lowly cot--
Their homely joys and humble fares--
Their _pay-night_ o'er a foaming pot.
Their week's work done, the coaly craft--
These horny-handed sons of toil
Require a "right gude willie-waught,"
The creaking wheels of life to oil.
See _hewers_, _putters_, _drivers_ too,
With pleasure hail this happy day--
All clean _wash'd up_, their way pursue
To drink, and crack, and get their _pay_.
The _Buck_, the _Black Horse_, and the _Keys_,
Have witness'd many a comic scene,
Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please,
And drollery that would cure the spleen.
With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats
They reach the place, where barleycorn
Soon down the dusty cavern floats,
From pewter-pot or homely horn.
The dust wash'd down, then comes the care
To find that all is rightly bill'd;
And each to get his hard-earn'd share
From some one in division skill'd.
The money-matters thus decided,
They push the pot more briskly round;
With hearts elate and hobbies strided,
Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.
"Here, lass," says Jack, "help this agyen,
It's better yell than's in the toun;
But then the road's se het it's tyen,
It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."
Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd
To quench the dry and dusky spark;
When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd,
Wags on about their wives and wark.
The famous feats done in their youth,
At _bowling_, _ball_, and _clubby-shaw_--
_Camp-meetings_, _Ranters_, _Gospel-truth_,
_Religion_, _politics_, and _law_.
With such variety of matter,
Opinions, too, as various quite,
We need not wonder at the clatter,
When ev'ry tongue wags--wrong or right.
The gifted few in lungs and lair
At length, insensibly, divide 'em:
And from a three-legg'd stool or chare
Each draws his favour'd few beside him.
Now let us ev'ry face survey,
Which seems as big with grave debate,
As if each word they had to say
Was pregnant with impending fate.
Mark those in that secluded place
Set snug around the stool of oak,
Labouring at some knotty case,
Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.
These are the pious, faithful few,
Who pierce the dark decrees of fate--
They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through,
As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."
They'll point you out the day and hour
When they experienc'd sin forgiven--
Convince you that they're quite secure,
They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.
The moral road's too far about,
They like a surer, shorter _cut_,
Which frees the _end_ from every doubt,
And saves them many a weary foot.
The _first's_ commensurate with our years,
And must be travell'd day by day;
And to the new-born few appears
A very dull and tedious way.
The _other's_ length solely depends
Upon the time when we begin _it_;
Get but set out--before life ends--
For all's set _right_ when once we're _in_ it.
They're now debating which is best--
The _short-cut_ votes the _others_ double;
For this good reason, 'mongst the rest,
_It_ really saves a world of trouble.
He that from goodness farthest strays,
Becomes a saint of first degree;
And Ranter Jeremiah says,
"Let bad ones _only_ come to me."
Old _Earth-worm_ soon obeys the call,
Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending,
For some few flaws from Adam's fall,
Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.
Still stick to him afield or home,
The methodistic _brush_ defying,
So that the Ranter's _curry-comb_
Is now the only means worth trying.
In habits form'd since sixty years,
The hopes of change won't weigh a feather--
Their power so o'er him domineers,
That they and life must end together.
See on their right a gambling few,
Whose every word and look display
A desperate, dark, designing crew,
Intent upon each others' _pay_.
They're _racers, cockers, carders_ keen,
As ever o'er a tankard met,
Or ever bowl'd a match between
The _Popplin Well_ and _Mawvin's yett_.
On _cock-fight_, _dog-fight_, _cuddy-race_,
Or _pitch_ and _toss_, _trippet_ and _coit_,
Or on a _soap-tail'd grunter's chase_,
They'll risk the last remaining doit.
They're now at cards, and Gibby Gripe
Is peeping into Harry's hand;
And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe
His party easily understand.
Some for the odd trick pushing hard--'
Some that they lose it pale with fear--
Some betting on the turn-up card--
Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.
Whilst others brawl about _Jack's_ brock,
That all the Chowden dogs can bang;
Or praise "_Lang Wilson's_" piley cock,
Or _Dixon's_ feats upon the swang.
Here _Tom_, the pink of bowlers, gain'd
Himself a never-dying name,
By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd,
Which neither _age_ nor _toil_ could tame.
For labour done, and o'er his dose,
Tom took his place upon the hill;
And at the very evening's close
You faintly saw him bowling still.
All this display of pith and zeal
Was so completely habit grown,
That many an hour from sleep he'd steal
To bowl upon the hill alone.
The night wears late--the wives drop in
To take a peep at what is doing;
For many would not care a pin
To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.
Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd,
And had "Begone, dull Care" begun,
With _face_ as grave as Methodist,
And _voice_ most sadly out of tune;
But soon as e'er he Nelly saw,
With brows a dreadful storm portending,
He dropt at once his under jaw,
As if his mortal race was ending;--
For had the grim destroyer stood,
In all his ghastliness before him,
It could not more have froze his blood,
Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.
His better half, all fire and tow,
Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff--
Swore that he could a brewing stow,
And after that sipe all the draff.
Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers--
Drew up his fallen chops again--
Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors,
Then broke forth in this piteous strain:--
"O! Nell, thou's rung me mony a peal,
Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer;
Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel,
And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.
Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread,
For now aw's nobbet verra silly,
Just like a geuss cut i' the head,
Like _Jemmy Muin_ or _Preacher Willy_.
Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale,
The verra thing to myek me happy;
She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail,
And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.
But suin as e'er the knot was tied,
And we were yok'd for life together;
When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried,
And a' was fairly i' the tether;--
Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks,
And round maw heed flew stuils and chairs;
Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,--
An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.
Just like wor maisters when we're bun',
If men and lads be varra scant,
They wheedle us wi' yell and fun,
And coax us into what they want.
But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers
Suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin';
When yence yor feet are i' the geers,
Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.
Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay
They peep, to please ma dowly cavel;
Aw's at the coal wall a' the day,
And nightly i' the waiter level--
Aw hammer on till efternuin,
Wi' weary byens and empty wyem;
Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin
Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.
But this is a' of little use,
For what aw dee is never reet;
She's like a larm-bell i' the house,
Ding-donging at me day and neet.
If aw sud get ma wark owre suin,
She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet;
And if aw's till the efternuin,
Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.
Feed us and cleed us weel she may,
As she gets a'ways money plenty:
For every day, for mony a pay,
Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.
'Tis true aw sometimes get a gill--
But then she a'ways gets her grog;
And if aw din't her bottle fill,
Aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog.
She buys me, te, the warst o' meat,
Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees
Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet--
Shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese.
Of sic she feeds the bairns and me,
The tyesty bits she tyeks hersel';
In whilk ne share nor lot have we,
Excepting sometimes i' the smell.
The crowdy is wor daily dish,
But varra different is their minny's;
For she gets a' her heart can wish
In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.
Ma canny bairns luik pale and wan,
Their bits and brats are varra scant;
Their mother's feasts rob them o' scran--
For wilfu' waste makes woefu' want.
She peels the taties wi' her teeth,
And spreads the butter wi' her thoom;
She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth,
Where mawks and caterpillars soom!
She's just a gannin' heap o' muck,
Where _durts_ of a' description muster;
For _dishclout_ serves her _apron nuik_
As weel as _snotter clout_ and _duster_!
She lays out punds in _manadge_ things,
Like mony a thriftless, thoughtless bein';
Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings,
Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein'.
Just mark wor _dress_--a _lapless coat_,
With byeth the _elbows_ sticking through--
A _hat_ that never cost a _groat_--
A _neckless shirt_--a _clog_ and _shoe_.
She chalks up _scores_ at a' the shops
Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid;
And when we flit, the landlord stops
Ma _sticks_ till a' the rent be paid.
Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf,
For letting her the breeches wear;
And tell'd aw dinna thresh her half--
Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.
'Aw think,' says Dick, 'aw wad her towen,
And verra suin her courage cuil:
Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen,
Then clap her on Repentance stuil.
If that should not her tantrums check,
Aw'd _peel_ her to the varra _sark_:
Then 'noint her wi' a _twig o' yeck_,
And efter make her _eat_ the bark.'
Enough like this aw've heard thro' life;
For every body has a plan
To guide a rackle ram-stam wife,
Except the poor tormented man."
Will could not now his feelings stay--
The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek:
He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay,
And sobbing said, "my heart will break!"
Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy,
Took Neddy gently by the sleeve;
"Aw just luik'd in as aw went by--
Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?"
"Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here,
Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed;
Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer
The verra neet before we wed."
"Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw,
Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees;
At sic a _kittle time_, ye knaw,
Yen tells ye ony thing to please.
Besides, thou's had enough o' drink,
And mair wad ony myek th' bad;
Aw see thy een begin to blink--
Gan wi' me, like a canny lad."
"O, Nan! thou hez a witching way
O' myekin' me de what thou will;
Thou needs but speak, and aw obey,
Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.
But tyest the yell and stop a bit--
Here tyek a seat upon ma knee--
For 'mang the hewers in wor pit
There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.
For if ma top comes badly down,
Or ought else keeps me lang away,
She cheers me wi' the weel-knawn soun'--
'Thou's had a lang and weary day.'
If aw be naggy, Nanny's smile
Suin myeks me blithe as ony lark;
And fit to loup a yett or stile--
Ma varra byens forget to wark.
Ma Nan--ma bairns--ma happy hyem--
Set ower hard labour's bitter pill--
O Providence! but spare me them--
The warld may then wag as it will.
She waits upon me hand and foot--
Aw want for nought that she can gie me--
She fills ma pipe wi patten cut--
Leets it, and hands it kindly to me.
She tells me a' her bits o' news,
Pick'd up the time aw've been away;
And fra ma mouth the cuttie pous
When sleep o'ercomes ma weary clay.
Sae weel she ettles what aw get--
Sae far she a'ways gars it gan--
That nyen can say we are i' debt,
Or want for owther claes or scran.
Then drink about, whe minds a jot--
Let's drown wor cares i' barleycorn--
Here, lass, come bring another pot,
The _cawler_ dissent _call_ to morn."
"Nay, hinny Ned, ne langer stay--
We mun be hyem to little Neddy--
He's just a twel'munth awd to-day,
And will be crying for his deddy.
Aw'll tyek thee hyem a pot o' beer,
A nice clean pipe and backy te--
Thou knaws aw like to hae thee near--
Come, hinny, come, gan hyem wi' me."
Like music's soft and soothing powers
These honey'd sounds drop on his ear:
Or like the warm and fertile showers
That leave the face of nature dear.
Here was the power of woman shown,
When women use it properly--
He threw his pipe and reck'ning down--
"Aw will--aw will gan hyem wi' thee."
At home arriv'd, right cheerfully
She set him in his easy chair--
Clapt little Neddy on his knee,
And bid him see his image there.
The mother pleas'd--the father glad,
Swore Neddy had twee bonny een--
"There ne'er was, Ned, a finer lad;
And, then, he's like thee as a bean.
Aw've luck'd for _Wilson_ a' this day,
To cut th' pig down 'fore it's dark;
But he'll be guzzling at the pay,
And winden on about his wark.
What lengths aw've often heard him gan,
Sweering--and he's not fond of fibbin
'He'll turn his back on ne'er a man
For owther killin pigs or libbin.'
Still _Jack's_ an honest, canty cock,
As ever drain'd the juice of barley;
Aw've knawn him sit myest roun' the clock
Swatt'ling and clatt'ring on wi' _Charley_.
Now, Deddy, let me ease yor arm;
Gi'e me the bairn, lay down yor pipe,
And get the supper when it's warm--
It's just a bit o' gissy's tripe.
Then come to me, ma little lammy--
Come, thou apple o' ma e'e--
Come, ma Neddy, t' the mammy--
Come, ma darlin'--come to me!"
Here, see a woman truly blest
Beyond the reach of pomp and pride;
Her _infant_ happy at her breast--
Her _husband_ happy by her side.
Then take a lesson, pamper'd wealth,
And learn how little it requires
To make us happy when we've health--
Content--and moderate desires.
"Tha father, Ned, is far frae weel,
He lucks, poor body, varra bad;
A' ower he hez a cawdrife feel,
But thinks it but a waff o' cawd.
Aw've just been ower wi' something warm,
To try to ease the weary coff,
Which baffles byeth the _drugs_ and _charm_!
And threatens oft to tyek him off.
He says, 'O Nan, ma life thou's spar'd--
The good it's duin me's past beleevin'--
The Lord will richly thee rewaird--
The care o' me will win thee heeven.'
Now as his bottle's nearly tuim,
Mind think me on, when at the town,
To get the drop black beer and rum,
As little else will now gan down.
We mebby may be awd worsel's,
When poverty's cawd blast is blawin';
And want a frien' when nature fyels,
And life her last few threeds is drawin'.
Besides, the bits o' good we dee
The verra happiest moments gie us;
And mun, aw think, still help a wee,
At last, frae awfu' skaith to free us.
Let cant and rant then rave at will
Agyen a' warks--aw here declare it--
We'll still the hungry belly fill,
Se lang as ever we can spare it."
Here, then, we'll leave this happy pair
Their "home affairs" to con and settle;
Their "ways and means" with frugal care,
For marketing next day to ettle.
THE NEWCASTLE BLUNDERBUSS!
Or, TRAVELLING EXTRAORDINARY.
BY R. EMERY.
Tune--"Calder Fair."
Ne mair o' grand inventions brag,
'Bout Steamers and Chain Brigs, man--
Newcassel's sel' still bears the bell,
An' bothers a' their wigs, man:
'Bout Gleediscowpies, silly things,
Ne langer make a fuss, man--
E'en silk Balloons mun bend their croons
To Reidie's Blunderbuss,[50] man.
Fal, de ral, &c.
As Geordy Fash and Dolly Raw
Cam stagg'rin up the Kee, man,
Wi' Teasdale's beer, an' sic like cheer,
They'd rather myed ow'r free, man--
Into this Blunderbuss they gat,
'Side two outlandish chiels, man,
But ere they'd time to leet their pipes,
They fand theirsels i' Shields, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.
Each day on wor Sandhill it stands--
If in tid ye should pop, man,
An' close yor winkers half an hour,
Clean ow'r the sea ye'll hop, man!
The Kee-side Jarvies now may run,
An' barbers' clerks se gay, man--
'Twad be a spree if, fra' wor Kee,
They'd cut to Bot'ny Bay, man!
Fal, de ral, &c.