The Newcastle Song Book Part 5

Says she, Canny man, is te lyem, Or been wading in Tyne, maw hinny?

I' troth, she was like for to dee, And just by the way to relieve her, The water's been wading through me, And this Jackey's a gay deceiver.

Rum te idity, &c.

If e'er aw drink Jackey agyen, May the b.i.t.c.h of a la.s.s, maw adviser, Lowp alive down maw throat, with a styen As big as a pulveriser.

Rum te idity, &c.

THE LITTLE PEE DEE.

'Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow, There cam on a varry strang gale, The Skipper luik'd out o' the huddock, Crying, 'Smash, man, lower the sail!

Smash, man, lower the sail!

Or else to the bottom we'll go!

The keel and a' hands wad been lost, Had it not been for Jemmy Munro.

Fal lal la, &c.

The gale blew stranger and stranger, When they cam beside the Muck House, The Skipper cried out--'Jemmy, swing 'er!'

But still was as fear'd as a mouse.

Pee Dee ran to clear the anchor, 'It's raffled!' right loudly he roar'd:-- They a' said the gale wad sink her, If it wasn't seun thrawn overboard.

The laddie ran sweaten, ran sweaten, The laddie ran sweaten about; Till the keel went b.u.mp against Jarrow, And three o' the bullies lap out: Three o' the bullies lap out, And left nyen in but little Pee Dee; Who ran about stamping and crying-- 'How! smash, Skipper, what mun aw dee?'

They all shouted out frae the Kee, 'Steer her close in by the sh.o.r.e; And then thraw the painter to me, Thou cat-fyec'd son of a wh.o.r.e!'

The lad threw the painter ash.o.r.e, They fasten'd her up to the Kee: But whe knaws how far she meyt gyen, Had it not been for Little Pee Dee.

Then into the huddock they gat, And the flesh they began to fry: They talk'd o' the gale as they sat, How a' hands were lost--varry nigh.

The Skipper roar'd out for a drink, Pee Dee ran to bring him the can: But odsmash, mun! what d'ye think?-- He cowp'd a' the flesh out o' the pan!

Fal lal la, &c.

THE TYNE COSSACKS.

Not long ago, a fray in s.h.i.+elds And Sunderland began, 'Tween the Seamen and s.h.i.+p-owners, How their vessels they should man; But the Owners stiff, to them were deaf, Which made the Seamen for to grumble, For our Tyne Cossacks they soon did send, The haughty pride of Jack to humble.

Whack row de dow, &c.

A letter being sent, they were Call'd out without delay; But the Gen'ral thought he'd try their skill Before they went away: So round the Moor he made them scour, Before him cut such wond'rous capers; Their praise he sounded high and low, In all the three Newca.s.sel Papers.

Whack row de dow, &c.

He cries, My lads, you're qualified To do such wond'rous feats, That to s.h.i.+elds and Cleadon you must go, To clear the lanes and streets; Destroy all those who may oppose The s.h.i.+ps from sailing down the river, And then our Prince will sure commend Your deeds in arms, my boys, so clever.

Whack row de dow, &c.

The Butcher cries, if we begin, We'll surely kill and slay; The Tanner swore they'd tan their hides, Before they came away; A Tailor next, with fear perplext, Said, he should like no other station, Than to be the Doctor's waiting man, If sanction'd by the Corporation.

Whack row de dow, &c.

To s.h.i.+elds they got, tho' much fatigued, Upon their worn-out hacks, Some cried, 'The Polish Lancers come!'

And others, 'Tyne's Cossacks!'

By some mishap, the Farrier's cap Blew off, but met with coolish treatment, Into a huckster's shop it went-- Now Martin's cap's a tatie beatment.

Whack row de dow, &c.

For several weeks they rode about, Like poachers seeking game; The Marines so bold, as I am told, Had better sight than them; For every boat that was afloat, They seiz'd upon with mad-like fury, And to the bottom sent them straight, Not asking either Judge or Jury.

Whack row de dow, &c.

The deed was done by this effort, All opposition gone, The ardour of the heroes cool'd, 'Cause they were lookers on: Odsmas.h.!.+ says yen, if e'er agyen There's ony mair au'd boats to smatter, We'll hev horses that's web-footed, then We'll fight byeth on the land and watter.

Whack row de dow, &c.

Now should our Tyne Cossacks e'er have To face their enemies, They'll boldly meet them on the land, Or on the stormy seas.

While the farmers sing, that they, next spring, At spreading dung will ne'er be idle: So--success to these Invincibles, Their long swords, sadle, bridle.

Whack row de dow, &c.

THE PITMAN'S REVENGE

_Against Buonaparte._

Ha' ye heard o' these wondrous Dons, That myeks this mighty fuss, man, About invading Britain's land?

I vow they're wondrous spruce, man: But little do the Frenchmen ken About our loyal Englishmen; Our Collier lads are for c.o.c.kades, And guns to shoot the French, man.

Tol lol de rol, de rol de rol.

Then to parade the Pitmen went, Wi' hearts byeth stout an' strang, man; Gad smash the French! we are sae strang, We'll shoot them every one, man!

Gad smash me sark! if aw wad stick To tumble them a' down the pit, As fast as aw could thraw a coal, Aw'd tumble them a' doon the hole, An' close her in abuin, man.

Tol lol de rol, &c.

Heads up! says yen, ye silly sow, Ye dinna mind the word, man: Eyes right! says Tom, and wi' a dam, And march off at the word, man: Did ever mortals see sic brutes, To order me to lift me cutes!

Ad smash the fuil! he stands and talks, How can he learn me to walk, That's walk'd this forty year, man!

Tol lol de rol, &c.

But should the Frenchmen shew their fyece, Upon our waggon-ways, man, Then, there upon the road, ye knaw, We'd myek them end their days, man: Aye, Bonaparte's sel aw'd tyek, And thraw him i' the burning heap, And wi' greet speed aw'd roast him deed; His marrows, then, aw wad nae heed, We'd pick out a' their e'en, man.

Tol lol de rol, &c.

Says w.i.l.l.y Dunn to loyal Tom, Your words are all a joke, man; For Geordy winna hae your help, Ye're sic kamstarie folk, man: Then w.i.l.l.y, lad, we'll rest in peace, In hopes that a' the wars may cease; But awse gi'e ye Wull, to understand, As lang as aw can wield me hand, There's nyen but George shall reign, man.

Tol lol de rol, &c.

Enough of this hes sure been said, Cry'd cowardly w.i.l.l.y Dunn, man; For should the Frenchmen come this way, We'd be ready for to run, man.

Gad smash you, for a fuil! says Tom, For if aw could not use me gun, Aw'd tyek me pick, aw'd hew them doon, And run and cry, through a' the toon, G.o.d save greet George our King, man!

Tol lol de rol, &c.

BOB CRANKY'S 'SIZE SUNDAY.