The Newcastle Song Book Part 1

The Newcastle Song Book.

by Various.

A period of sixteen years having elapsed since an edition of Local Songs was published in a collective form, and that volume having been for some time out of print, renders almost superfluous any apology in presenting the following collection to the public. During the last few years, so great has been the progress of education amongst the humbler cla.s.ses of society, that many of those eccentricities so often seized upon by our Local Poets as subjects of humourous satire, are fast disappearing, and ere many more years shall have elapsed, the Songs of our Local Bards will be the only memorials of the peculiar characteristics of this ancient border town.

Should an occasional coa.r.s.eness of language meet the eye, let not the fastidious reader forget, that such were the modes of expression used by the parties described, and that elegance of language would be as much out of place as are the polished cla.s.sical sentences of Shenstone's rustics, so often and so justly a theme of censure.

The Publishers beg to tender their best thanks to the several respectable individuals who have so kindly favoured them with the many original pieces which appear in this volume; and regret that the limited s.p.a.ce for an address prevents a more personal allusion, than referring the reader to their names in the table of contents.

THE TYNE SONGSTER.

CANNY NEWCa.s.sEL.

'Bout Lunnun aw'd heard ay sic wonderful spokes, That the streets were a cover'd wi' guineas: The houses sae fine, an' sic grandees the folks, Te them huz i' the North were but ninnies.

But aw fand mawsel blonk'd when to Lunnun aw gat, The folks they a' luik'd wishey washey; For gowd ye may howk till ye're blind as a bat, For their streets are like wors--brave and blashy!

'Bout Lunnun then divent ye myek sic a rout, There's nowse there maw winkers to dazzle: For a' the fine things ye are gobbin about, We can marra iv Canny Newca.s.sel.

A c.o.c.kney chep show'd me the Thames druvy fyace, Whilk he said was the pride o' the nation; And thowt at their s.h.i.+ppin aw'd myek a haze-gaze; But aw whopt maw foot on his noration.

Wi' huz, mun, three hundred s.h.i.+ps sail iv a tide, We think nowse on't, aw'll myek accydavy; Ye're a gowk if ye din't knaw that the lads o' Tyneside Are the Jacks that myek famish wor navy.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

We went big St. Paul's and Westminster to see, And aw war'nt ye aw thought they luick'd pritty: And then we'd a keek at the Monument te; Whilk maw friend ca'd the Pearl o' the City.

Wey hinny, says aw, we've a Shot Tower sae hee, That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven; And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus an e'e, Ye'd crack on't as lang as ye're livin.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

We trudg'd to St. James's, for there the King leaves, Aw war'nt ye a good stare we teuk on't; By my faicks! it's been built up by Adam's awn neaves, For it's and as the hills, by the luik on't.

Shem bin ye! says aw, ye should keep the King douse, Aw speak it without ony malice: Aw own that wor Mayor rather wants a new house, But then--wor Infirm'ry's a palace.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! out com the King, while we were there, His leuks seem'd to say, Bairns, be happy!

Sae down o' my hunkers aw set up a blare, For G.o.d to preserve him frae Nappy: For Geordy aw'd dee--for my loyalty's trig, And aw own he's a good leuken mannie; But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig, By gocks! he wad leuk just as canny.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Ah hinnies! about us the la.s.ses did lowp, Thick as cur'ns in a spice singin hinnie; Some aud and some hardly fligg'd ower the dowp, But aw kend what they were by their whinnie: Ah! mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tight girl, But aw'm tell'd they're oft het i' their tappin: Aw'd cuddle much rather a la.s.s i' the Sworl, Than the dolls i' the Strand, or i' Wappin.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

Wiv a' the stravaigin aw wanted a munch, An' maw thropple was ready to gizen; So we went tiv a yell-house, and there teuk a lunch, But the reck'ning, me saul, was a bizon.

Wiv huz i' the North, when aw'm wairsh i' my way, (But t' knaw wor warm hearts ye yur-sel come) Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say, 'Cruick your hough, canny man, for ye're welcome!

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

A s.h.i.+lling aw thought at the Play-house aw'd ware, But aw jump'd there wiv heuk finger'd people; Me pockets gat ripe'd, an' heerd them na mair Nor aw cou'd frae Saint Nicholas's steeple.

Dang Lunnun! wor Play-house aw like just as weel, And wor play-folks aw's sure are as funny; A s.h.i.+llin's worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel, Nae hallion there thrimmels maw money.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

The loss o' the cotterels aw dinna regaird, For aw've gettin some white-heft at Lunnun; Aw've learn'd to prefer me awn canny calf-yaird; If ye catch me mair frae't ye'll be cunnun.

Aw knaw that the c.o.c.kneys crack rum-gum-shus chimes To myek gam of wor bur and wor 'parel; But honest Blind Willey shall string this iv rhymes, And we'll sing'd for a Chrissenmas Carol.

'Bout Lunnun, &c.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

On each market day, sir, the folks to the Quay, sir, Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn, And round the small grate, sir, in crowds they all wait, sir, To get themselves shav'd in a rotative turn.

Old soldiers on sticks, sir, about politics, sir, Debate--till at length they quite heated are grown; Nay, nothing escapes, sir, until _Madam Sc.r.a.pe_, sir, Cries, 'Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?

A medley this place is, of those that sell laces, With fine s.h.i.+rt-neck b.u.t.tons, and good cabbage nets; Where match-men, at meeting, give each a kind greeting, And ask one another how trade with them sets; Join'd in with _Tom Hoggers_ and little _Bob Nackers_, Who wander the streets in their fuddling jills; And those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir, That deal in fly-cages and paper wind mills.

There pitmen, with baskets, and gay posey waistcoats, Discourse about nought but whe puts and hews best; There keelmen just landed, swear, May they be stranded, If they're not shav'd first, while their keel's at the _fest_!

With face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost, Throw off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair; While others stand looking, and think it provoking, But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, sir, she tucks the cloth in, sir, Their old quid they'll pop in the pea-jacket cuff; And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting, And looking around with an air fierce and bluff.

Such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir, And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise; But when she prepares, sir, to take off the hairs, sir, With lather she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir, Than painful distortions take place on the brow; But if they complain, sir, they'll find it in vain, sir, She'll tell them, 'there's nought but what _Patience_ can do:'

And as she sc.r.a.pes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em, They'll cry out, as tho' she'd bereav'd them of life, 'Od smash your brains, woman! aw find the blood's comin, Aw'd rather been shav'd with an aud gully knife!'

For all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir, And sweeps round their jaws the chop torturing tool; Till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir; But she gives them for answer, 'Sit still, you pist fool!'

For all their repining, their twisting and twining, She forward proceeds till she's mown off the hair; When finish'd, cries, 'There, sir!' then straight from the chair, sir, They'll jump, crying, 'Daresay you've sc.r.a.p'd the bone bare!'

THE JENNY HOOLET;

_Or, Lizzie Mudie's Ghost._

Sum time since a Skipper was gawn iv his keel, His heart like a lion, his fyece like the Deil: He was steering hissel, as he'd oft duin before, When at au'd Lizzie Mudie's his keel ran ash.o.r.e.

Fal de ral la, &c.

The skipper was vext when his keel ran ash.o.r.e, So for Geordy and Pee Dee he loudly did roar: They lower'd the sail--but it a' waddent dee; Sae he click'd up a coal and maist fell'd the Pee Dee.

Fal de ral, &c.

In the midst of their trouble, not knawn what to do, A voice from the sh.o.r.e gravely cried out, 'Hoo Hoo!'

How now, 'Mister Hoo Hoo! is thou myekin fun, Or is this the first keel that thou e'er saw agrun?'

Fal de ral, &c.