An' make it's sand-banks flee, man,
Like Corby Craws ow'r Marsden Rock,
Into the German Sea, man!--
Wor canny Mayor ne pains will spare,
He'll back it out an' out, man,
Till ev'ry nuisance in wor toon
For Shields shall take the route, man.
Fal, de ral, &c.
Footnote 50: Omnibusses commenced running between Newcastle and Shields
every hour, (from eight o'clock in the morning till eight at night,)
Nov. 12, 1832.
A PITMAN'S VISIT TO NEWCASTLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY.
Tune--"Newcastle Fair."
Od smash! marra, where hast thou been,
Aw been luiken for ye a yel hour;
For to tell of a seet aw hae seen,
Sic a seet as aw ne'er saw before:
Aw straight to Newcassel did gan,
And gat in just as it struck ten;
Then through the streets aw quickly ran,
For to get heame suin agyen.
Rum ti idity, &c.
Just as aw was runnin amain!
Aw comes alangside of a shop,
Wi' papers clagg'd on every pane--
To see them aw thought aw wad stop.
But oh! sic reed flames an' sic darts!
And sae mony lovers together;
And sic bonny arrows and hearts--
Od zounds! they were painted quite clever.
Rum ti idity, &c.
Says aw, to a buck in the street,
(You may guess he was drest very fine,)
"What's that thing that's painted complete?"
Says he, "It is a Valentine."
Says aw, "Do ye knaw what they're for,
That they are painted sae smart?"
Then he humm'd and he haw'd like a boar,
And said, "To send to your sweetheart."
Rum ti idity, &c.
Then thinks aw to masell, aw'll hae yen,
To send to my awn dearest hinny:
Aw bowls into the shop like a styen,
When out pops a man very skinny:
Says he, "Sir, pray what do you want?"
Says aw, "Yen o' them things that's bonny;"
When in comes a chep that did cant,
And said, "Aw want one, my dear honey."
Rum ti idity, &c.
That the fellow was Irish I knew,
As suin as to speak he began,
He luik'd at Valentines not a few,
But could not find one to suit Nan:
Says he, "Mind, aw will hev the prattiest."
Says aw, "Ye must knaw that you shan't."
Did he think aw'd be content wi' the dirtiest?
Ma sang! aw did both swear and rant.
Rum ti idity, &c.
When he brought me a clout o' the lug,
He did it sae frisky and gaily,
Says he, "You must know, Mr. Mug,
That I'm a stout bit of shillelah."
Aw brought him another as tough,
It made a' his cheeks for to rattle;
Says he, "I have got quite enough:"
Sae thus we gave ower the brattle.
Rum ti idity, &c.
We went to a yell-house just nigh,
For to get a wee sup o' strang yell;
And then we came back, by and by,
And to luikin at Valentines fell.
And then got as great as could be,
And bought Valentines for to fit, man:
But aw say, without telling a lee,
He met wiv his match in a Pitman.
Rum ti idity, &c.
THE SKIPPER IN THE MIST.
Tune--"Derry down."
Some time since there cam on a very thick fog,
In Lunnin some folks were near lost in a bog;--
A bog, you will say, that's an Irish name--
They got knee deep in mud, and that's just all the same.
Derry down, &c.
Now, during the fog, sir, a Newcassel keel
Was sailing down Tyne to a ship lying at Shields,
The fog cam se thick, skipper off wig and roar'd--
"Aw mun lay by my swape--Geordy, lay by yor oar!
Derry down, &c.
Now, hinnies, my marrows! come tell's what to dee,
Aw's frighten'd wor keel will soon drive out to sea!"
So the men an' their skipper, each sat on his buttock,
An' a council they held, wi' their legs down the huddock.
Derry down, &c.
Says Geordy, "We canna be very far down,
With the wash o' my oar, aw hev just touch'd the grund;
Cheer up, my awd skipper, put on yor awd wig,
We're between the King's Meadows an' Newcassel Brig!"
Derry down, &c.
The skipper, enrag'd, then declar'd he kend better,
For at the same time he had smelt the salt water;
"And there's Marsden Rock, just within a styen thraw,
Aw can see't through the mist, aw'll swear by my reet paw.
Derry down, &c.
The anchor let's drop till the weather it clears,
For fear we be nabb'd by the French privateers!"
The anchor was dropt: when the weather clear'd up,
They soon moor'd their keel at the awd Javil Group.
Derry down, &c.
The skipper was vex'd, and he curs'd and he swore,
That his nose had ne'er led him se far wrang before!
But what most of all did surprise these four people
Was, Marsden Rock chang'd into Gateshead Church Steeple!
Derry down, &c.
THE MIRACULOUS WELL;
Or, NEWCASTLE SPAW WATER.[51]
BY R. EMERY.
Tune--"Rory O'More."
A fig for quack doctors, their pills and their stuff,
Our neighbours of them have been tir'd long enough;
E'en Dinsdale and Croft their pretensions withdraw,
And Harrowgate bends to our Newcassel Spaw:
The halt and the blind, and the grave and the gay,
To drink of the water, in crowds haste away;
And gouty old bachelors thither repair,
With Jews, Turks, and tailors, its virtues to share.
Hurrah for Newcassel!--Newcassel for me!
Where ale is so prime, and the lasses so free:
Your lumps, bumps, and rheumatics vanish like snaw,
By one mighty draught of this wonderful Spaw!
One day Cuddy Willy sat down by the spring,
And fiddled and sang till he made the Dean ring;
Then said to the crowd--My lads, as to the Spaw,
Good whisky improves it, aw verra weel knaw!--
But, if you'll be seated, you'll soon hear me sing
The magical cures that's performed by this spring:--
He cut an odd caper, and thus he began--
First drinking a quart from a rusty tin-can.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.
Awd Humpy-back'd Dick, and two or three mair,
Fra Shiney Raw pit to the Well did repair;
He drank of the Spaw, when the hump, in a crack,
Dissolv'd and soon vanish'd frae poor Dicky's back!
Lord bliss us! cried timber-toed tee-total Peg,
If it banishes humps, it might bring forth a leg!
She got to the Well, with the Spaw she made free,
And very soon after poor Peggy had three!!!
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.
Pure sanctified Betty scarce knew what to think--
Hard might be her fate if she ventur'd to drink--
For most of the lasses that live in Lang Raw,
Have getten the dropsy by tasting the Spaw!
The doctors declare, that at forty weeks' end,
'Twill be in their arms, and the dropsy will mend;
The howdies are wishing the time was well o'er,
For surely such water was ne'er known before.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.
A bumper, cried Cuddy, and toasted the Queen,--
Which soon was responded by all on the green,--
May she have a son soon as big's Johnny Fa'--
(There's virtue in wishing while drinking the Spaw).
So now, my good lasses, gan hyem to your wark--
There's danger in wand'ring the Dean in the dark
'Mang trees and awd quarries--I'd have ye beware,
Remember poor Peggy was caught in the snare.
Hurrah for Newcassel! &c.
Footnote 51: Some years ago, a spring of water was observed to ooze
from the bank at the foot of Sandyford Dean, to which some people
attributed medicinal qualities; but it was not generally noticed till
the spring of 1841, when its fame spread abroad, and drew the attention
of multitudes of people to the spot, many of whom being afflicted with
complaints of long standing, after drinking freely of this water,
declared themselves cured; and some of the faculty proving its qualities
by analyzation, gave it a more favourable report, which caused still
greater numbers of invalids, &c. to visit the spring--some with casks
and cans, others with jugs and bottles, anxiously waiting for a turn.
Whether the benefits said to have been received from this water were
real or imaginary, time, the test of all things, will assuredly prove.
THE SKIPPER'S FRIGHT.
Tune--"Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn."
As aw was gannen out yen neet,--
It happen'd in the dark, man,--
A chep cam up ga' me a freet,
'Twas little Skipper Clark, man:
His fyece was white as ony clout,
Says aw, what hae ye been about?
He gyep'd at me, and gav a shout,
O Dick, I've seen the Deil, man!
Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes,
And horns upon his heed, man,
He had a gob,--aye, sic a size,
It flay'd me near to deed, man!
His eyes were like twee burning coals,
His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes,
His horns were like twee crooked poles,--
Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man!
Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell
That Awd Nick had twee club-feet,--
Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel',
Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet:
With that aw gav a luik about--
The club-feet was there without a doubt;
And just wi' that he gav a shout--
And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man.
Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard
About this mighty Deil, man,--
Shew me the place where he appear'd,
For aw'd like to see him weel, man?
Then Dick he tuik me to the place,
Where he had seen his awful fyece--
And still he swore it was the case,
That he had seen the Deil, man.
Alang wi' Dick aw hitch'd about
To see this mighty Deil, man,
When just with that Dick gav a shout--
Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man;
But when of him aw'd got a view,
Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue,
For it was nought but a great black cow
That Dick tuik for the Deil, man.
J. N.
SANDGATE PANT;
Or, JANE JEMIESON'S GHOST.
BY R. EMERY.
Tune--"I'd be a Butterfly."
The bell of St. Ann's toll'd two in the morning,
As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel--
From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning--
In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel;
The city was hush, save the keel-bullies' snoring--
The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky--
When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring,
Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:--
Ripe Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!
O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella,
Jin Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig,
Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow--
Aw'll wait yor return on Newcassel Tyne Brig!--
Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver!
Maw canny lass, Jin, let me fetch him next tide;
The spectre then frown'd--and he vanish'd for ever,
While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried--
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!
She waits for her lover, each night at this station,
And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear;
The keel-bullies listen in great consternation--
Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear!
She sports round the pant till the cock, in the morning,
Announces the day--then away she does fly
Till midnight's dread hour--thus each maiden's peace scorning,
They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry--
Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!
Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!
THE BIRTH-DAY OF QUEEN VICTORIA:
A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Stewards' Barge on
Ascension Day, May 24th, 1838.
THOMAS EMERSON HEADLAM, ESQ., MAYOR. JOHN CARR, ESQ., SHERIFF.
Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper--good health to the Queen!
Our Port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail,
And many ships sail with a prosperous gale;
And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd,
May true Conservators each landmark uphold.
The Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay,
Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day--
Each countenance beaming, in mind all serene,
To drink in a bumper--good health to the Queen.
While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave,
Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave;
And whether as few or as many we be,
Like true honest Freemen we still will be free.
The fam'd Corporation of our good old town,
Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown;
In loyalty ever the foremost we've been,
To drink in a bumper--good health to the Queen.
Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!
Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!
Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!
Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!
Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!
Hurrah for the Stewards, the Spirit of all!
Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!
Hurrah for a bumper--long life to the Queen!
_God save the Queen!_
R. GILCHRIST.
DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]
BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering tells his waefu' tale:--
"Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa'!
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.
Full ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew,
And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts which from my drone I blew."
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
"Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din."
My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me.
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,
I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame;
Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.
"Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha';
And, weeping at the eve of life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw."
Footnote 52: This song comes highly recommended to public notice by the
warm commendation of the poet Burns, who, in a letter to his friend, Mr.
Thompson, writes--"DONOCHT-HEAD is not mine--I would give ten pounds it
were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor
of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." And Dr. Currie says,
respecting this song, that "the author need not have been ashamed to own
himself, as it is worthy of the pen of Burns or Macnell."
THE HERBAGE COMMITTEE[53],
(That is, The Jewel of a Committee).
BY R. GILCHRIST.
_Not composed over the midnight oil, but amid the noon-day broil of the
Barge-day, May 8, 1834._
ADDRESSED TO THE CHAIRMAN.
While others of great deeds may dream,
Yet still commend to me, sir,
A subject rare, and prouder theme,
The Herbage Committee, sir:
This Committee a jewel was,
From truth that never swerv'd sir,
And gain'd much glory and applause,
And well they both deserv'd, sir.
The time has been when bread and cheese
Was wont to be their fare, sir,
What think ye now of turkeys, geese,
A partridge, or a hare, sir!
Well I remind their many joys,
And many happy days, sir,
For O they were the bonny boys
For getting up surveys, sir.
I have seen gallant Mister Woods,
And Mr Grainger, too, sir,
Approach us--though dress'd in our duds--
With an obsequeous bow, sir;
For MARTIN, MIEKLE, and MAGGALL,
CALBREATH, friend CHARLES, and me, sir,
WANLESS and ANGUS, GARRETT--all
Were in the Committee, sir!
Who then wad wish to be a Mayor,
Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir?
To serve in office, send me there,
To hear each sage remark, sir;
And O, indeed, I fear it much,
Their like there never will be, sir--
No, never, never more be such
An Herbage Committee, sir.
Footnote: 53 The Committee were--William Martin, William Miekle,
William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles Stephenson, the Author,
William Wanless, William Angus, and William Garrett. Their activity and
unanimity were proverbial.
THE BEAR CLUB.
Good dinners to our noble Queen,
And many may she see, sir,
And much I wish she could have seen
The Bear-club Committee, sir:
Her cooks, no doubt, with skill refin'd,
Have cater'd long with care, sir,
But much, I doubt, they ever din'd
Her Majesty of Bears, sir.
'Tis said the Kings of India
Can eat some pretty things, sir;
You need not go so far away
To see the _Indian Kings_, sir:
The landlord there can at his call
Serve up some pleasant fare, sir--
_Mac_ now has clean eclipsed them all,
And made us eat a Bear, sir.
Some talk about the Esquimaux,
And tell of Cherokees, sir,
Hottentots and Marathas,
And folks in the South Seas, sir;
'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell
In dishes odd and rare, sir,
But we from them will bear the bell,
For we have eat a Bear, sir.
All times have had their men of taste,
Each passing age adorning,
Who, rather than good stuff should waste,
Would eat from night till morning:
To us they must knock under now--
We've given them a scare, sir;
They all could eat a sheep or so,
But we can eat a Bear, sir.
Now as you chance to walk the street,
How every dog will run, sir,
Lest you should roast him for a treat,
And eat him up in fun, sir;
The Quayside horses, loaded well,
Will scamper off like hares, sir,
To see, not Bears all eating men,
But men all eating Bears, sir.
The next time, sir, you eat a Bear,
Grant this my supplication--
Invite to dine our canny Mayor,
And hungry Corporation;
In seeking for a friend like you,
They're looking lean and spare, sir,
So in compassion send them now
The fragments of the Bear, sir.
_R. Gilchrist._
THE LASS OF WINCOMBLEE.
Tune--"Nae Luck about the House."
Now all ye lilies hang your heeds,
Ye roses bloom nae mair,
Ye tulips all, put on your weeds,
All, posies may despair.
For not a lass on all Tyneside,
Frae Stella to the sea,
Can marrow Moll the evergreen
Of bonny Wincomblee.
For not a lass, &c.
Her een shine like a davy-lamp,
Or like a summer's day--
Her voice sae like the after-damp,
Near teuk my breath away
Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet,
Or honey frae the bee;
But sweeter far than byeth o' these
Is Moll of Wincomblee.
Her feet are like twe bits ov cork,
When running iv a reel--
Tiv "Shiver the Rags" and "Off she goes,"
She can cut an' shuffle weel;
Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets
She'll tyek a walk wi' me,
Call at Scrogg House, round Byker fields,
And back by Walker Kee.
When Jinny Pit it has full wark,
We settled for te wed--
The fiddle sal play frae break o' day,
Till we get snug in bed;
Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill,
Singin hinnies to your tea--
Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet
Ere was seen at Wincomblee.
Tho' time rolls on, and so it may,
As Tyne rolls to the sea,
Fresh as an evergreen is Moll
Of bonny Wincomblee.
ON THE DEATH OF BOLD ARCHY.
Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret,
Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is set:
From the _Blue Stone_ to _Cawsey Bridge_, from _Tynemouth Bar_ and
round by _Stella_,
Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by this honest fellow.
The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by,
And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye;
And all did then the truth record;--warm was the heart now still
and caller--
So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of valour!
Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave,
And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on his grave!
Both English and outlandish names must one day pass oblivion's portal,
But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal.
R. GILCHRIST.
_May 9, 1828._
BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.
Newcastle's now a dowly place--all things seem sore aclite,
For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight;
Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of
one departed,
For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more
happy hearted.
He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want,
He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant;
Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their
rage lamented,
His was the lot too few have known--to live content, and die contented.
The Bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true,
And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath ta'en from his brow;
His local reed in dust he lays--farewell!--there trill'd its
final shiver,--
It has been tun'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute
for ever.
_R. Gilchrist._
ACROSTIC
_On the Death of a celebrated eccentric Character of Newcastle upon
Tyne._
=B=lithe Minstrel of the banks of Tyne,
=L=o! o'er thy bier, for "auld langsyne,"
=I=n silent groups, each rolling year,
=N=orthumbria's sons will drop a tear!
=D=eath cut thee down--the tyrant scream'd,
=W=hen thy bright spirit o'er him beam'd!
=I=n vengeful mood he view'd his claim,
=L=ost in the triumph of thy name.--
=L=et Tyne's fam'd sons proclaim afar--
=Y=ou shall outlive the Morning Star!
R. E.
William Purvis, more generally known by the name of BLIND WILLY, died on
Friday, the 20th July, 1832, aged 80 years.
Illustration