The Newcastle Song Book Part 20

Then they cry out, every man, "Cornel, we'll de a' we can!"

So away to s.h.i.+elds they ran: O what Cavalry!

But they had no call to fight, The Marines had bet them quite; And the Cornel's made a Knight, For the Victory!

THE COLLIER'S KEEK AT THE NATION.

Huz Colliers, for a' they can say, Hae byeth heads and hearts that are sound-- And if we're but teun i' wor way, There's few better cheps above ground.

Tom Cavers and me, fra West Moor, On a kind ov a jollification, Yen day myed what some folks call a tour, For a keek at the state o' the nation.

We fand, ere we'd lang been on jaunt, That the world wasn't gannin sae cliver-- It had gettin a Howdon-Pan cant, As aw gat once at wor box-dinner.

Monny tyels, tee, we heard, stiff and gleg-- Some laid the world straight as a die-- Some crook'd as a dog's hinder leg, Or, like wor fitter's nose, all a-wry.

One tell'd me, my heart for to flay, (Thinking aw knew nought about town) Out o' my three-and-sixpence a-day, The King always gat half-a-crown.

Aw said they were fuels not to ken That aw gat a' the bra.s.s me awnsel'-- Ga' wor Peg three white s.h.i.+llins, and then Laid the rest out on backey and yell!

They blabb'd oot that aw was mistuen-- That maw brains sairly wanted _seduction_-- Without _animal_ Parliaments _seun_ We wad a' gan to wreck and _construction_-- That we'd wrought ower lang for wor lair-- That landlords were styen-hearted tykes-- For their houses and land only fair, To divide them and live as yen likes!

To bring a' these fine things about Was as easy as delving aslent is-- Only get some rapscallion sought out, And to Lunnin sent up to present us.

Thinks aw to mysel' that's weel meant-- There's wor Cuddy owre laith to de good, We'll hev him to Parliament sent, Where he'll bray, smash his byens, for his blood.

Then, says aw, Tommy, keep up thy pluck, We may a' live to honour wor nation-- So here's tiv Au'd England, good luck!

And may each be content in his station.

Huz Colliers, for a' they can say, Hae byeth heeds and hearts that are sound-- And if we're but teun i' wor way, There's few better cheps above ground.

BLIND WILLIE SINGING.

Ye gowks that 'bout daft Handel swarm, Your senses but to harrow-- Steyn deaf to strains that 'myest wad charm The heart iv a wheelbarrow-- To wor Keyside awhile repair, Mang Malls and bullies pig in, To hear encor'd, wi' monie a blair, Poor au'd Blind Willie's singin'.

To hear fine Sinclair tune his pipes Is hardly worth a scuddock-- It's blarney fair, and stale as swipes Kept ower lang i' the huddock.

Byeth Braham and Horn behint the wa'

Might just as weel be swingin, For a' their squeelin's nought at a'

To au'd Blind Willie singin'.

About "_Sir Maffa_" lang he sung, Far into high life keekin'-- Till "_Buy Broom Buzzoms_" roundly swung, He gae their lugs a sweepin'.

A stave yence myed _Dumb Bet_ to greet, Sae fine wi' cat-gut stringin'-- _Bold Airchy_ swore it was a treat To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Aw've heard it said, _Fan Welch_, one day, On pepper'd oysters messin', Went in to hear him sing and play, An' get a moral lesson.

She vow'd 'twas hard to haud a heel-- An' thowt (the gla.s.s while flingin) Wi' clarts they should be plaister'd weel That jeer'd Blind Willie's singin'.

It's fine to hear wor bellman talk-- It's wondrous fine and cheerin'

To hear _Bet Watt_ and _Euphy Scott_ Scold, fight, or bawl fresh heerin': To see the keels upon the Tyne, As thick as hops a' swimmin', Is fine indeed, but still mair fine To hear Blind Willie singin'.

Lang may wor Tyneside lads sae true, In heart byeth blithe an' mellow, Bestow the praise that's fairly due To this bluff, honest fellow-- And when he's hamper'd i' the dust, Still i' wor memory springin', The times we've run till like to brust To hear blind Willie singin'.

But may he live to cheer the _bobs_ That skew the coals to s.h.i.+vers, Whee like their drink to grip their gobs, And burn their varry livers.

So, if ye please, aw'll myek an end, My sang ne farther dingin', Lest ye may think that aw pretend To match Blind Willie's singin'.

BOLD ARCHY & BLIND WILLIE'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN STARKEY.

"What! is he gyen?" _Bold Airchy_ said, And moungin' scratch'd his head-- "O can sic waesome news be true?

Is Captain Starkey dead?

Aw's griev'd at heart--push round the can-- Seun empty frae wor hands we'll chuck it-- For now we'll drink wor last to him, Since he has fairly kick'd the bucket.

My good s.h.a.g hat ne mair aw'll wave, His canny fyace to see-- Wor bairns' bairns will sing o' him, As Gilchrist sings o' me For O! he was a lad o' wax!

Aw've seen him blithe, an' often mellow-- He might hae faults, but, wi' them a', We've seldom seen a better fellow.

Yen day they had me drown'd for fun, Which myed the folks to blair; Aw myest could wish, for his dear sake, That aw'd been drown'd for fair.

On monny a day when cannons roar, Yen loyal heart will then be missin'-- If there be yell, we'll toast his nyem-- If there be nyen, he'll get wor blissin'."

_Blind Willie_ then strumm'd up his kit Wi' monny a weary drone, Which _Thropler_, drunk, and _Cuckoo Jack_ Byeth answer'd wiv a groan.

"Nice chep! poor chep!" Blind Willie said-- "My heart is pierc'd like onny riddle, To think aw've liv'd to see him dead-- Aw never mair 'ill play the fiddle.

His gam is up, his pipe is out, And fairly laid his craw-- His fame 'ill blaw about, just like Coal dust at s.h.i.+ney-Raw.

He surely was a joker rare-- What times there'd been for a' the nation, Had he but liv'd to be a Mayor, The glory o' wor Corporation.

But he has gi'en us a' the slip, And gyen for evermore-- _Au'd Judy_ and _Jack c.o.xon_ tee, Has gyen awhile before-- And we maun shortly follow them, An' tyek the bag, my worthy gentles-- Then what 'ill poor Newca.s.sel dee, Depriv'd of all her ornamentals!

We'll moralize--for dowly thowts, Are mair wor friends than foes-- For death, like when the tankard's out, Brings a' things tiv a close.

May we like him, frae grief and toil, When laid in peace beneath the hether-- Upon the last eternal sh.o.r.e, A' happy, happy meet together!"

A VOYAGE TO LUNNIN.

Lang years ower meadows, moors, and muck, I cheerly on did waddle-- So various is the chance o' luck Between the grave and cradle.

When wark at hyem turn'd rather scant, I thought 'twas fair humbuggin'; An' so aw even teuk a jaunt, Faiks, a' the way to Lunnin.

_Lord Howick_ was my chosen s.h.i.+p, Weel rigg'd byeth stem and quarter, The maister was a cannie chep-- They ca'd him Jacky Carter.

Wi' heart as free frae guilt as care, I pack'd up all my duddin, And s.h.i.+pp'd aboard--the wind blew fair-- Away we sail'd for Lunnin.

Safe ower the bar a-head we tint-- The day was fine and sunny; And seun we left afar behint, Wor land o' milk and honey.

But few their dowly thoughts can tyem-- May be the tears were comin'-- Sair griev'd, ne doubt, to pairt wi' hyem, Though gaun to keek at Lunnin.

Fareweel, Tyne Brig and cannie Kee, Where aw've seen monny a shangy, Blind Willie, Captain Starkey tec-- Bold Archy and great Hangy.