The Newcastle Song Book Part 55

The sailors are all at the bar, They cannot get up to Newcastle,-- The sailors are all at the bar, They cannot get up to Newcastle.

Up with smoaky s.h.i.+elds, And hey for bonny Newcastle; Up with smoaky s.h.i.+elds, And hey for bonny Newcastle.

A NORTH s.h.i.+ELDS SONG.

We'll all away to the Law Lights, And there we'll see the sailors come in; We'll all away to the Law Lights, And there we'll see the sailors come in.

There clap your hands and give a shout, And you'll see the sailors go out; Clap your hands, and dance and sing, And you'll see your laddie come in.

COMMIT NO NONSENSE.

An aud chep that had spent a' his life i' the keels, Taking coals down the river to load s.h.i.+ps at s.h.i.+elds, Had some business, yen day, in Newcastle to do, And, when there, he'd stop and see a' that was new.

He view'd wor new streets, and was weel pleas'd, no doubt, He gap'd and he star'd, as he wander'd about; But still, as he star'd, there was yen thing seem'd queer, Whilk was plac'd on the walls--"Commit no nuisance here."

The aud boy was not very learned, you see, And, when young, he had got off his great A, B, C, And some words he could spell, tho' not sartinly clear, And his skill made it out--"Commit ne nonsense here."

He knew very little of Tee-total rules, But thought they might dee very weel amang feuls; In his wand'ring he thought about getting some beer.

And often he read--"Commit ne nonsense here."

A few pints of beer brought this chep to a stand, For nature, o'ercharg'd, wanted ease at his hand,-- For this purpose he enter'd a yard,--but, se queer, Just saw, 'buin his head--"Commit ne nonsense here."

The gurgling stream from the old fellow flow'd, His ease he enjoy'd myed a notable flood; But, just in the nick, when he thought a' was clear, A policeman cries--"Commit no nuisance here."

"Kind sir," says the man--for to speak he scarce durst-- "When aw com in here, aw was ready to burst."

"That's nought," says the policeman, "din't ye see clear, Daub'd upon the wall--'Commit no nuisance here.'"

The poor soul his flap b.u.t.ton'd up in a fright, The policeman swore that he wad him indite; But he teuk to his heels, for, says he, aw see clear, If aw stop onie langer there'll be nonsense here.

A NEW NURSERY RHYME.

This is the _Arcade_ that Grainger built.

This is the _Blade_, whose only trade, is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

These are the _Boys_ who, making a noise, are kick'd by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is the _Horde_ of Attorneys, who, bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is the _Hat_, all c.o.c.k'd and lac'd--a hat according to Briggs's taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Peregrine_, pragmatic and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the hat that was all c.o.c.k'd and lac'd, according to Briggs' peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Briggs_, who makes trowsers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so c.o.c.k'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Chinaman Reed_, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so c.o.c.k'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Stable_, who did all he was able to bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, to scout the hat without any brim; for Briggs deck'd the hat so c.o.c.k'd and lac'd,--and he prides himself on his fanciful taste,--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the rascally boys, who, making a noise, are kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

This is _Mister Seymour_, an attorney of note, who--alas!

for the hat--gave the casting vote, and agreed with Stable, who did all he was able to bully poor Reed, who said Briggs was right, and who wears his unmentionables awfully tight, which were made by this Briggs, who makes trousers and coats, who abus'd the committee for giving their votes to Peregrine, so pragmatic and prim, who scouted the hat without any brim--the unfortunate hat, all c.o.c.k'd and lac'd, after Briggs's own peculiar taste--paid for by the horde of attorneys so bored by the noise of the rascally boys, kick'd out by the blade, whose only trade is to keep the Arcade that Grainger built.

COOKSON'S ALKALI.

Now haud yor tongues, I'll try my lungs, And de my best forbye; My sang is choice, but maw sweet voice Is spoil'd by Alkali.

CHORUS.

Then let us all, byeth great and small, Set up a hue and cry; Else s.h.i.+elds will suin be a' duin broon By Cookson's Alkali.

Wor fields are bare, they'll grow ne mair Of barley, wheat, or rye: A famine now, and pest'lence, too, Is caus'd by Alkali.

Wor gardens grow just nothing now, The crops won't multiply; Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt But Cookson's Alkali.

Wor s.h.i.+ps hev got a sad dry rot, In spite of "anti-dry;"

For Kyan's wash, and such like trash, Can't cope wiv Alkali.

Then suin there'll be a s.h.i.+pless sea-- No sail will meet the eye; Wor masts and spars, and jolly tars Will strike to Alkali.

Wor houses soon will tummel doon, And flat as fluicks they'll lie-- They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks, Wi' this sad Alkali.

A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry; He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap, By Cookson's Alkali.

It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,-- But, see their tiny fry!-- They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings, And all from Alkali.

For dandy blades, and dapper maids, De nought but sob and sigh; They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad, And all wi' Alkali.

Wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops, Are proofs nyen can deny, That we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd, By Cookson's Alkali.

So, now, farewell to swipes and yell, And breed and beef, good bye!

We'll get nae mair awd English fare, For this d----d Alkali.

And when we're gyen, beneath a styen Wor cawd remains will lie, A prey, alas! to acid gas, Produc'd by Alkali.