The Newcastle Song Book Part 13

A s.h.i.+ELDS SOLILOQUY.

Ah! what's to come on us a' now?

(A s.h.i.+elds gowk was heard, grumbling, to say) We now find it far ower true, That Newca.s.sel has getten the day: They'd only been gulling our folk, When they sent us down that fine letter; But aw think 'twas too much a joke, To tell us we'd getten the better.

Rum ti iddity, &c.

Was't this made our guns fire sae loud?

Did our bells for this ring sae merry?

For this our s.h.i.+ps swagger'd sae proud?

Faith, we've been in too big a hurry!

But our STAR, they said, could de ought, And the Treasury quickly would gull-- Our Butcher was clever, we thought; But aw think he's come hyem like a feul.

Rum ti iddity, &c.

Yet our plan we all thought was good; For we'd build them large cellars and kees; It likewise might be understood, Docks and warehouses tee, if they'd please.

Then we try'd to set in full view, That the Revenue it would increase; Especially as we stood now, When we thought ourselves snugly at peace.

Rum ti iddity, &c.

But the Newca.s.sel folk now, it seems, Had sent some deep jockies te Lunnin, And they suen upset all our schemes, Which we thought se clever and cunnin: For BIG-WIG, who mounts the Wool-sack, Said, That he plainly saw we were wrang, Since it had been prov'd in a crack, By the _Jockey_, whose ARM they call STRANG.

Rum ti iddity, &c.

But what's wa.r.s.e than losing our Branch, Is being spoil'd in our grand speculation; For 'stead of our s.h.i.+ning se staunch, We now meet wi' nought but vexation.

Now certainly we must be wrang, The Barbers are swearing and raving, Our faces are all grown se lang, They'll double the price of our shaving!!!

Rum ti iddity, &c.

THE GREEN-WIVES' LAMENTATION.

Wor Green-stalls on Sandhill, se lang fam'd of yore, Where Greenwives display'd all their fresh s.h.i.+ning store, Where tubs wi' tatoes their proud crests did rear, Cabbage, carrots, an' turnips wi' joy did appear.

Wor time on the Sandhill wi' pleasure did glide, To display all wor wares and to scold was wor pride; Wor noise did the greet folks of Gotham engage: By the stalls of the Butchers we're now to be caged.

But think not the Sandhill we'll tamely resign, By the L--d we will meet an' we'll kick up a s.h.i.+ne!

Wor voice we'll extend, and with noise rend the sky, When from the Sandhill we're compell'd to fly.

With speed, haste a.s.semble the first market-day, Wor forces we'll marshal in glorious array: A leader let's choose, a virago so bold, The word let her give, and we rarely will scold.

From off the Sandhill ere our legions depart, We will vent all wor spleen, and ease each full heart, We will scold till no malice or rancour remain, Then march off wor forces--a large warlike train.

A procession we'll form, wi' wor tubs and wor swills, And move with slaw steps frae the dear-lov'd Sandhill; And when the new station our forces obtain, Well take a good gla.s.s and well scorn to complain.

A PEt.i.tION

_From the Women of the Vegetable Market, to the Mayor of Newcastle._

When away fra the Sandhill, sir, at first that we wur sent, It was wi' heavy hearts, ye ken, yur Honour, that we went; But now iv the New Market, sir, we're ev'ry ane admir'd, And if ye'll n.o.but _cover_ us, it's all that is desir'd!

Afore your wors.h.i.+p judges us, now make a little _paws_, And dinna gan to say that we complain without a _caws_; For that yur Honour _cover'd_ a' the country wives, yeknow, But huz, yur awn sweet townswomen, ye let neglected go.

For shem, now hinny, Mr. Mayor, to gan & play yur rigs, An' cover a' the country girls that com to town wi' pigs; Wi' b.u.t.ter and wi' eggs too--they are se dousely made; Ah, you've _cover'd_ every ane of them, sir--iv a slated shade.

Now dinna let folks say that we've ne reet te complain, When they are a' se snugly plac'd, and we are i' the rain: Then without ne mair fash, sir, now do yur Honour say, That ye will n.o.but _cover_ us--and we will every pray.

THE FISH-WIVES' COMPLAINT,

_On their Removal from the Sandhill to the New Fish Market, on the 2d of January, 1826._

The merry day hez getten past, And we are aw myest broken hearted: Ye've surely deun for us at last-- Frae Sandhill, noo, ye hev us parted.

Oh! hinnies, Corporation!

A! marcy, Corporation!

Ye hev deun a shemful deed, To force us frae wor canny station.

It's nee use being iv a rage, For a' wor pride noo fairly sunk is-- Ye've cramm'd us in a Dandy Cage, Like yellow-yowlies, bears, and monkies: O hinnies, &c.

The cau'd East wind blaws i' wor teeth-- With iron bars we are surrounded; It's better far to suffer deeth, Than thus to hev wor feelings wounded.

O hinnies, &c.

Wor haddocks, turbot, cod, and ling, Are lost tiv a' wor friends' inspection; Genteelish folk from us tyek wing, For fear of catching some infection.

O hinnies, &c.

O, kind Sir Matt.--ye bonny Star, Gan to the King, and show this ditty-- Tell him what canny folks we are, And make him free us frae this Kitty.

O hinnies, &c.

If ye succeed, agyen we'll sing-- Sweet Madge, wor Queen, will ever bless ye; And poor au'd Jemmy tee, wor King, With a' us fishwives will caress ye.

O hinnies, &c.

SUNDERLAND JAMMY'S LAMENTATION,

_December, 1831._