The Newcastle Song Book Part 56

THE PITMAN'S RAMBLE.

Tune--"The Kebbuckstane Wedding."

BY R. EMERY.

Wor pit was laid in, and but little ti de, Says aw, Neighbour d.i.c.ky, let's off to Newca.s.sel, Their grand alterations aw's langin' to see,-- hey say, they're se fine, that they'll gar wor een dazzel.

We reach'd the _Black House_, and we call'd for some beer, When whe should pop in but the landlord, se handy-- He wish'd us se kindly a happy new year, And he rosin'd wor gobs with a gla.s.s o' French brandy.

We left wor good friend, an' got down to the _shop_ That has some fine la.s.ses frae Lunnin se clivver,-- Astonish'd, aw star'd till near like for to drop, At their great panes o' gla.s.s that wad cover Tyne river!

Says d.i.c.k, it's been myed for greet folk like Lord 'Size-- It belangs to Broad Brim that myed bra.s.s at the _corner_; At poor folks like us, now, he'll c.o.c.k up his eyes, As he sits at the end, there, like Little Jack Horner.

We wheel'd reet about--spied a far finer seet, As we went to the grocer's, to get some rag backy-- Lairge goold cups an' watches, se bonny and breet, An' fine _Fardin Pants_ runnin' whisky and jacky!

Aw wish'd aw could get mi gob fair at the spout, Aw'd pay for a sook o' this liquor se funny,-- Says d.i.c.k, the door's bolted to keep the crowd out-- It's a place made to glow'r at, but not to take money.

We down to the _Doctor's_ that lives in the Side, Who cures folks o' hairy-legg'd monsters, like donkies!

Cull cheps for his worm cakes frae far an' near ride-- Poor pitmen, an' farmers, an' keelmen, an' flonkies; A chep at the window did offer to swear, For truth, that this doctor, se clivver an' cunnin', Did take frae his sister, the very last year, A worm that wad reach frae Newca.s.sel to Lunnin!!!

At last to the Play-house aw swagger'd wi' d.i.c.k,-- They've us'd the King's Airms an' the paintings most shocking, Yen said, since the house had been kept by _Awd Nick_, Wi' humbugs an' lees he'd Newca.s.sel been mocking.

Says aw--Canny man, dis Awd Nick manage here!

That cunnin' black fiend that gav Eve the bad apple!!

Us Ranters will suen frae this place make him sheer, An' we'll preach in't worsels, then we'll bang Brunswick Chapel!

THE WORTHY RECTOR.

Sung at a Farewell Dinner, given, by his Paris.h.i.+oners, to the Rev. J.

COLLINSON, Rector of Gateshead, previous to his Removal to the Parish of Boldou.

Sec changes now there diz tyek place In ivry life and station, Things noo is a' turn'd upside doon, For little or ne occasion,-- Yen meets wi' acts yen luik'd not for, That drives yen into sorrow: We hev a case in point to meet In this wor canny borro-- Singing, fal, lal, &c.

Last Cursmas time whe wad ha'e thowt That wor awd priest wad leave us, And cause sec dowly thowts to c.u.m, Se very much to grieve us?

We sartly thowt we had him fix'd, And fa.s.sen'd here till death, sors; Unless he had been prebendized By Dean-and-Chapter breeth, sors.

His toils an' labours noo we'll loss:-- His sarmons for to syev us Will all be chang'd, an' varry suin, For wor new Rector's, Davis.

Aw oney hope an' pray we'll not Forget our late Protector,-- For thorty yeers he's led our "train,"

An' been wor _sowl_ Director.

For warks an' deeds amang the poor, For charity an' boonties, His match, aw think, ye'll not weel find In this or other c.o.o.nties: He's fed the hungry, heal'd the sick, Wivoot yor grete display, sors; He wiv his wealth did gyude by stealth-- Lang life to him! aw say, sors.

Yeers creeps upon us a' my frinds, And he'll suin be an ould un; And his move frae here, though its not far, Aw'm sure ye'll think a _bowld-un_.

Aw trust, at times, we'll see his fyece At church and parish dinners; For he's a man that loves the saints, Yet hates not the poor sinners.

This plate we've gi'en him here to-day, Wiv a' its s.h.i.+ning glister,-- The yen tureen was made by Reid, The other made by Lister,-- Lang may he live to see them s.h.i.+ne, Like bright and true reflectors, Reminding priests how laymen prize Upreet, kind-hearted Rectors.

Noo, fare ye weel, maw canny man, Yor wife an' a' yor childer; The score ye hev wad frighten some-- Their senses quite bewilder.

Lang may ye live a happy life, When ye frae Gyetside sivver: There's hundreds here will pray to G.o.d To bless ye noo and ivvur.

BATTLE OF SPITALOO.

On the thirtieth day of July The Chartists did combine, That they would hold a meeting At Newcastle upon Tyne; In spite of Mayor or Magistrates, They would come up to a man, But when the Police them attack'd, They took to their heels and ran.

CHORUS.

At the battle of Spitaloo, my boys, At the battle of Spitaloo-- The Chartists' colours were taken At the battle of Spitaloo.

They mairch'd in full procession, Through most streets of the town, And they declar'd the Magistrates Should never put them down; But of all their boasted courage About what they would do, The Police took their colours At the battle of Spitaloo.

With music, flags, and banners, And all their empty pride, The procession of the Chartists Was soon put to a side; The worthy Mayor and Magistrates Did let the Chartists know That they were masters of the town, At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists, to the Forth that night, Turn'd very boldly out,-- But soon they were dispersed, And all put to the rout: They laid the failure of their cause Upon the red and blue, Because they came against them At the battle of Spitaloo.

The Chartists and their leaders Are no more allow'd to meet, Their threat'ning combinations Have got the grand defeat,-- The National Convention Has got the overthrow, And the Chartists' colours taken At the battle of Spitaloo.

BATTLE ON THE s.h.i.+ELDS RAILWAY,

_Between a Town Councillor and an Architect, and the Pollis._

Tune--"Cappy's the Dog."

I' the toon of Newca.s.sel James Archbold dis dwell-- He's a slater te trade, and thinks ne small beer on hissel', And in Gallowgate, just aside the Darn Crook, Stands his house amang smells that wad make a horse puke.

I' the same toon a chep leeves, of varry great fame, For building fine houses--John Dobson's his nyem;-- His awn stands in New Bridge Street, by way of example,-- Blaw me if aw think it's a varry good sample.

It happen'd on ----, the ---- of November-- A day these two worthies will ever remember; For Dobson was varry nigh kill'd, I suppose, And poor Mr. Archbold spoilt all his best clothes.

The twesome to dine with John Sadler had been At Whitehill-point House, which is weel to be seen, A ye gan down to s.h.i.+elds; but aw'll begin my narration With the row that tuik place at the Howden-pan station.

Efter dinner, when each yen his belly had fill'd, And some of Jack Sadler's wine had been swill'd, To gan hyem te Newca.s.sel they left Whitehill-house; But, before they gat hyem, they gat a vast of abuse.

The station they reach'd ere the train had got there, And they each tuik a ticket, and each paid his fare; The train it came up, and Dobson gat in, And was just gawn to start when the row did begin.

Noo, yen of the pollismen placed at the station, With lang Jemmy Archbold had some altercation-- "Your ticket, sir, I must now have from you?"

"Not before I get in--I'll be d----d if you do."