The Newcastle Song Book Part 49

Robin Hood, Dog and Cannon, and Tiger for me, The Peac.o.c.k, well known to the clerks on the Quay; The Old Beggar's Opera for _stowrie_, my pet, Mrs. Richardson's was, and she cannot be bet.

There's the Black Bull and Grey Bull, well known to a few, Black, White, and Grey Horse, and Flying Horse too; The Black House, the White House, the Hole-in-the-Wall, And the Seven Stars, Pandon, if you dare call.

There's the Turk's Head, Nag's Head, and Old Barley Mow, The Bay Horse, the Pack Horse, and Teasdale's Dun Cow, The s.h.i.+p, and the Keel, the Half Moon, and the Sun-- But I think, my good friends, it is time to be done.

Then each landlord and landlady, wish them success, Town and trade of the Tyne, too--we cannot do less; And let this be the toast, when we meet to regale-- "May we ne'er want a b.u.mper of Newcastle ale."

W. WATSON.

A NEW SONG FOR BARGE-DAY, 1835.

_Sung on board of the Steward's Steam-boat._

It well may grieve one's heart full sore, To be in such a movement-- Upon the river, as on sh.o.r.e, The rage is all improvement: Once blithe as grigs, our merriment Is chang'd to meditation, How we these ills may circ.u.mvent-- O what a Corporation!

The Quayside always was too big, As scullers have attested; Tant s.h.i.+ps, that come with rampant rig, Against its sides are rested.

Still to extend it in a tift, They're making preparation, And Sandgate-midden is to s.h.i.+ft-- O what a Corporation!

At Tyne-main once there was a caunch, And famous sport was found there; So long it stood--so high and staunch-- All vessels took the ground there; But, somehow, it has crept away, By flood or excavation, And time there you need not delay-- O what a Corporation!

They think to move Bill-point--a spot So lovely and romantic-- Which has sent many s.h.i.+ps to pot, And set some seamen frantic; Then many a gowk will run to see, And stare with admiration, From Snowdon's Hole to Wincomlee-- O what a Corporation!

How silent once was Wallsend-sh.o.r.e-- Its dulness was a wonder; Now, from the staiths, full waggons pour Their coals like distant thunder; To have restor'd its wonted peace, In vain our supplication,-- The trade, they say, it will increase-- O what a Corporation!

Where Tynemouth-bar, I understand, A rock from side to side is, How well would look a bank of sand, Not higher than the tide is; But this, it seems, is not to be-- In spite of my oration, The Tyne is still to join the sea-- O what a Corporation!

O would the Tyne but cease to flow, Or, like a small burn, bubble, There would not be a barge-day now, Nor we have all this trouble; But here, alas! we sailing roam About its conservation, Instead of sleeping safe at home-- O what a Corporation!

The Moral.

As patriots in public cause, We never once have swerv'd yet, And if we have not gain'd applause, We know we've well deserv'd it: Who thinks we care for feasting, he Must be a stupid noddy-- We're, like the Herbage-committee, An ill-requited body.

ROBERT GILCHRIST.

ST. NICHOLAS' CHURCH.

O bonny church! ye've studden lang, To mence our canny town; But I believe ye are sae strang, Ye never will fa' down: The architects, wi' a' their wit, May say that ye will fa'; But let them talk--I'll match ye yet Against the churches a'.

CHORUS.

Of a' the churches in our land, Let them be e'er sae braw, St. Nicholas', of Newcastle town, Yet fairly bangs them a'.

Lang have ye stood ilk bitter blast, But langer yet ye'll stand; And ye have been for ages past, A pattern for our land: Your bonny steeple looks sae grand-- The whole world speaks o' ye, Been a' the crack, for cent'ries back, And will be when I dee.

'Tis true they've patch'd ye all about With iron, stone, and wood; But let them patch--I have a doubt, They'll do ye little good; But, to be sure, its making work-- There's plenty lives by ye-- Not only tradesmen and our clerk, But the greedy black-coats, tee.

Your bonny bells there's nane excels, In a' the country round; They ring so sweet, they are a treat When they play heartsome tunes; And when all's dark, the people mark Ye with your fiery eye, That tells the travellers in the street The time, as they pa.s.s by.

O that King William wad come down, To see his subjects here, And view the buildings of our town-- He'd crack o' them, I swear; But when he saw our canny church, I think how he'd admire, To see the arch sprung from each side That bears the middle spire.

Now, to conclude my little song, That simple, vocal theme-- I trust, that if I've said aught wrong, That I will be forgi'en: Then lang may fam'd St. Nicholas' stand, Before it does come down, That, when we dee, our bairns may see The beauties of our town.

PAGANINI, THE FIDDLER;

_Or, The Pitman's Frolic_.

Tune--"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

Come, lay up your lugs, and aw'll sing you a sang, It's nyen o' the best, but it's braw new and funny-- In these weary times, when we're not very thrang, A stave cheers wor hearts, tho' it brings us ne money: Aw left s.h.i.+ney Raw, for Newca.s.sel did steer, Wi' three or four mair of our neighbours se canny, Determin'd to gan to the play-house to hear The King o' the fiddlers, the great Baggy Nanny.

Right fal, &c.

We reach'd the Arcade, rather drouthy and sair-- It's a house full of pastry-cooks, bankers, and drapers-- At the fine fancy fair, how my marrows did stare, On the m.u.f.fs, hats, and beavers, se fam'd in the papers; At Beasley's, where liquor's se cheap and se prime, A bottle aw purchas'd for maw sweetheart, f.a.n.n.y, We drank nowt but brandy--and, when it was time, We stagger'd away to see great Baggy Nanny.

We gat t' the door, 'mang the crowd we did crush, Halfway up the stairs I was carried se handy; The la.s.sie ahint us cried, Push, hinny, push-- Till they squeez'd me as sma' and as smart as a dandy; We reach'd the stair-heed, nearly sm.u.t.h.e.r'd, indeed-- The gas letters glitter'd, the paintings look'd canny-- Aw clapt mysel' down side a la.s.s o' reet breed, Maw hinny, says aw, hae ye seen Baggy Nanny.

The la.s.sie she twitter'd, and look'd rather queer, And said, in this house there is mony a dozen, They're planted so thick, that there's no sitting here, They smell so confounded o' cat-gut and rosin; The curtain flew up, and a lady did squall, To fine music play'd by a c.o.c.kney bit mannie, Then frae the front seats I suen heard my friends bawl, Off hats, smash yor brains, here comes great Baggy Nanny.

An outlandish chep suen appear'd on the stage, And cut as odd capers as wor maister's flonkey, He skipp'd and he fiddled, as if in a rage-- If he had but a tail, he might pa.s.s for a monkey!

Deil smash a good tune could this bowdy-kite play-- His fiddle wad hardly e'en please my aud grannie-- So aw suen join'd my marrows and toddled away, And wish'd a good neet to the great Baggy Nanny.

On crossing Tyne-brig, how wor lads ran the rig, At being se silly duen out o' their money,-- Odd bother maw wig, had he play'd us a jig, We might tell'd them at hyem, we'd seen something quite funny; But, law be it spoke, and depend it's ne joke-- Yen and a' did agree he was something uncanny, Though, dark o'er each tree, he before us did flee, And fiddled us hyem did this great Baggy Nanny.

R. EMERY.

THE OYSTER-WIFE'S PEt.i.tION,

_On the Removal of the Oyster-tub from the Quay_.

Tune--"The Bold Dragoon."

Oh! Mister Mayor, it grieves me sair-- Alas! what mun aw dee?

Wor Oyter-tub[46] is doom'd ne mair To grace Newca.s.sel Kee!