MY LORD ’SIZE; Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.

When Fame brought the news of Great Britain’s success,

And told at Olympus each Gallic defeat;

Glad Mars sent by Mercury orders express,

To summon the deities all to a treat:

Blithe Comus was plac’d

To guide the gay feast,

And freely declar’d there was choice of good cheer;

Yet vow’d to his thinking,

For exquisite drinking,

Their nectar was nothing to Newcastle beer.

The great god of war, to encourage the fun,

And humour the taste of his whimsical guest,

Sent a message that moment to Moor’s [2] for a tun

Of stingo, the stoutest, the brightest and best;

No gods, they all swore,

Regal’d so before,

With liquor so lively, so potent, and clear:

And each deified fellow

Got jovially mellow,

In honour, brave boys, of our Newcastle beer.

Apollo, perceiving his talents refine,

Repents he drank Helicon water so long;

He bow’d, being ask’d by the musical Nine,

And gave the gay board an extempore song:

But ere he began,

He toss’d off his cann:

There’s nought like good liquor the fancy to clear:

Then sang with great merit,

The flavour and spirit,

His godship had found in our Newcastle beer.

’Twas stingo like this made Alcides so bold,

It brac’d up his nerves, and enliven’d his pow’rs;

And his mystical club, that did wonders of old,

Was nothing, my lads, but such liquor as ours.

The horrible crew

That Hercules slew,

Were Poverty—Calumny—Trouble—and Fear:

Such a club would you borrow,

To drive away sorrow,

Apply for a jorum of Newcastle beer.

Ye youngsters, so diffident, languid, and pale,

Whom love, like the cholic, so rudely infests;

Take a cordial of this, ’twill probatum prevail,

And drive the cur Cupid away from your breasts:

Dull whining despise,

Grow rosy and wise,

Nor longer the jest of good fellows appear;

Bid adieu to your folly,

Get drunk and be jolly,

And smoke o’er a tankard of Newcastle beer.

Ye fanciful folk, for whom Physic prescribes,

Whom bolus and potion have harrass’d to death!

Ye wretches, whom Law and her ill-looking tribes,

Have hunted about ’till you’re quite out of breath!

Here’s shelter and ease,

No craving for fees,

No danger—no doctor—no bailiff is near!

Your spirits this raises,

It cures your diseases,

There’s freedom and health in our Newcastle beer.

The jailor, for trial, had brought up a thief,

Whose looks seem’d a passport for Botany Bay;

The lawyers, some with and some wanting a brief,

Around the green table were seated so gay:

Grave jurors and witnesses, waiting a call;

Attornies and clients, more angry than wise,

With strangers and town’s-people, throng’d the Guild-Hall,—

All waiting and gaping to see my Lord ’Size.

Oft stretch’d were their necks, oft erected their ears,

Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound,

When tidings arriv’d, which disolv’d them in tears,

That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown’d!

Straight left tête a tête were the jailor and thief;

The horror-struck crowd to the dead-house quick hies;

Ev’n the lawyers, forgetful of fee and of brief,

Set off, helter-skelter, to view my Lord ’Size.

And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings,

And the tubs of the taties are left to take care;

Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings,

And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare.

The Glassmen, some naked, some clad, heard the news,

And off they ran smoking, like hot mutton-pies;

Whilst Castle-garth Tailors, like wild Kangaroos,

Came, tail-on-end jumping, to see my Lord ’Size.

The dead-house they reach’d, where his Lordship they found,

Pale, stretch’d on a plank, like themselves out of breath;

The Crowner and Jury were seated around,

Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death.

No haste did they seem in, their task to complete,

Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise;

Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat

Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord ’Size.

Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos’d:—

“My Lord on the terrace seem’d studying his charge;

And when (as I thought) he had got it compos’d,

He went down the stairs and examin’d the barge.

First the stem he survey’d, then inspected the stern,

Then handled the tiller, and look’d mighty wise;

But he made a false step when about to return,

And souse in the river straight tumbled Lord ’Size.”

Now his narrative ended—the Butler retir’d,

Whilst Betty Watt, mut’ring (half drunk) thro’ her teeth,

Declar’d, “in her breest great consarn it inspir’d,

That my Lord should sae cullishly come by his deeth.”

Next a keelman was call’d on, Bold Archy his name,

Who the book as he kiss’d shew’d the whites of his eyes;

Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,

And this evidence gave them respecting Lord ’Size.

“Aw was setten the keel, wi’ Dick Stavers an’ Mat,

An’ the Mansion-hoose Stairs we were just alangside,

When we a’ three see’d sumthing, but didn’t ken what,

That was splashing and labbering aboot i’ the tide.

“It’s a fluiker!” ki Dick; “No,” ki Mat, “it’s owre big,

“It luik’d mair like a skyat when aw furst see’d it rise:”

Kiv aw—for aw’d getten a gliff o’ the wig—

Odds marcy! Wye, marrows, becrike it’s Lord ’Size.

Sae aw huik’d him an’ hawl’d him suin into the keel,

An’ o’top o’ the huddock aw rowl’d him aboot;

An’ his belly aw rubb’d, an’ aw skelp’d his back weel,

But the wayter he’d drucken it wadn’t run oot.

Sae aw brought him ashore here, an’ doctors, in vain,

Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries;

For ye see there he’s lying as deed as a stane,—

An’ that’s a’ aw can tell ye about my Lord ’Size.”

Now the Jury for close consultation retir’d:

Some “Death accidental” were willing to find;

Some “God’s visitation” most eager requir’d,

And some were for “Fell in the river” inclin’d:

But ere on their verdict they all were agreed,

My Lord gave a groan, and wide open’d his eyes;

Then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed,

And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord ’Size.

Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun,

’Bout huz see’n my Lord at the town, mun,

Aw seer aw was smart, now

Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now

Nyen’ them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.

When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se,

My jacket wi’ posies se fine see,

My sark sic sma’ threed, man,

My pig-tail se greet, man!

Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,

Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi’ lang quarters,

Aw myed wour bairns cry,

Eh! sarties! ni! ni!

Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to awd Tom’s and fand Nancy,

Kiv aw, Lass, thou’s myed to my fancy;

Aw like thou as weel

As a stannin pye heel,

Ho’way to the town wi’ Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin,

Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?

Weyt’ see my lord ’Sizes,

But ye shanna gan aside us,

For ye’re not half se fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki’ Geordy, We leve i’ yen raw, weyet,

I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet,

At a’ things aw’ve play’d,

And to hew aw’m not flay’d,

Wi’ sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,

At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:

Can ye jump up and shuffle,

And cross owre the buckle,

When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky.

Thou naws, i’ my hoggars and drawers,

Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers:

Fra the trap door bit laddy,

T’ the spletter his daddy,

Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!

Thou’d best had thy whisht about warik,

Or aw’ll sobble thy body,

And myek thy nose bloody,

If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh’d—t’church we gat without ’im;

The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em!

Smasht a keel-bully roar’d,

Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord?

Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff

O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,

Wi’ the little bit mannies,

Se fine and se canny,

Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.

Then away we set off to the yell-house,

Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows,

Aw tell’d owre the wig,

Se curl’d and se big;

For nyen saw’d se weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket,

Rove my breeks and spoil’d a’ my fine jacket:

Nan cry’d and she cuddled

My hinny, thou’s fuddled,

Ho’way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky.

So we stagger’d alang fra the town, mun,

Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun:

Smash, a banksman or hewer,

No not a fine viewer,

Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for my new suit, a’ tatters,

Twe black een—od smash a’ sic maters!

When my lord comes agyen, mun,

Aw’l strive every byen, mun,

To bang a’ wor Concern, ki’ Bob Cranky.

O’ the flesh and breed day when wour bun’, mun,

Aw’l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun;

For, od smash my neavel!

As lang as wour yebble,

Let’s keep up the day, ki’ Bob Cranky.

Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off,

To see ma lord wi’ wig se fine toss’d off,

But they mak a sang man

Aw can’t tell how lang man,

All myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky.

Ma blue coat and pigtail’s my awn, wyet!

And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet!

Aw like to shaw town folks,

Whe se oft ca’ us gowks,

They ar’n’t se fine as Bob Cranky.

If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a’m Bob,

A’ll mak him sing the wrang side o’ his gob,

A’ll gi’m sic sobbling

A’ll set him hyem hobbling,

For myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky.

A’ll myek his noddle as reed as ma garters;

A’ve a lang stick, as weel as lang quarters,

Whilk a’ll lay ow’r his back,

’Till he swears ne’er to mak

Ony mair sangs o’ Bob Cranky.

Aw wonder the maist how he did spy,

What was dyun, when nobody was by—

Some Conj’rer he maun be,

Sic as wi’ Punch aw did see,

Whilk myed the hair stand o’ Bob Cranky.

Our viewer sez aw can’t de better,

Than send him a story cull letter.

But writing a’ll let rest;

The pik fits ma hand best,

A pen’s owr sma for Bob Cranky.

Nan, whe a’ll marry or its very lang,

Sez, “Hinny, din’t mind the cull fellow’s sang,

“Gif he dis se agyan,

“Our schyul maister’s pen

“Shall tak pairt wi’ ma bonny Bob Cranky.”

“Ize warrn’t, gif aw weer my pillease,

“An ma hat myed of very sma strees;

“He’ll be chock full o’ spite,

“An about us will write,

“An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.”

“Sure, Bobby,” says she, “his head’s got a crack,”

“Ne maiter,” sed I, an gov her a smack.

“Pilleases are tippy,

“Like shugar’s thy lippy,

“And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.”

The Crankies, farrer back nor I naw,

Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw,

Wi’ white sticks, an’ Sheriff,

But warn’t myed a sang of,

Nor laugh’d at, like clever Bob Cranky.

Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet!

To see his big wig a’ve ne fear, wyat!

So be-crike! while aw leeve,

Thof wi’ lang sangs a’m deav’d,

Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky!

Come marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now,

Sae our thropples together we’ll weet now;

Aw’ve myed a new sang,

And to sing ye’t aw lang,

For it’s about the Bonny Geatsiders.

Of a’ the fine Volunteer corpses,

Whether footmen, or ridin o’ horses,

’Tween the Tweed and the Tees,

Deel hae them that sees

Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae?

Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?

Nay, for myeking a crack,

Through England aw’l back

The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders.

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,

A’wash their sel’s clean i’ the sleek trough;

Fling off their black duddies,

Leave hammers and studdies,

And to drill—run the Bonny Geatsiders.

To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin,

On Permanent Duty they’re gannin;

And sune i’ th’ papers,

We’s read a’ the capers,

O’ the corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Newcassel chaps fancy they’re clever,

And are vauntin and braggin for ever;

But they’ll find themselves wrang,

If they think they can bang,

At soug’rin, the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Gen’ral sall see they can loup dykes,

Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;

Nay, to soom (at a pinch)

Through Tyne, wad’nt flinch

The corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt’s nobbit hummin,

When he tells about Bonnepart cummin;

But come when he may,

He’ll lang rue the day

He first meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

Like an anchor shank, smash! how they’ll clatter ’im,

And turn ’im, and skelp ’im, and batter ’im,

His banes sall by pring,

Like a fryin pan ring,

When he meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders.

Let them ance get ’im into their taings weel,

Nae fear but they’ll give ’im his whaings weel;

And to Hazlett’s [3] pond bring ’im,

And there in chains hing ’im;

What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders!

Now, marrows, to shew we’re a’ loyal,

And that, wi’ the King and Blood Royal,

We’ll a’ soom or sink,

Quairts a piece let us drink,

To the brave and the Bonny Geatsiders.

Fareweel, fareweel, ma comely pet!

Aw’s fourc’d three weeks to leave thee;

Aw’s doon for parm’ent duty set,

O dinna let it grieve thee!

Ma hinny! wipe them e’en, sae breet,

That mine wi’ love did dazzle;

When thy heart’s sad can mine be leet!

Come, ho’way get a jill o’ beer,

Thy heart to cheer:

An’ when thou sees me mairch away,

Whiles in, whiles out

O’ step, nae doot,

“Bob Cranky’s gane—” thou’lt sobbing say,

“A sougering to Newcassel!”

Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe,

Like yammering Isbel Macky;

Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe,

And take a blast o’ backy!

It’s but for yen and twenty days,

The foulks’s een aw’ll dazzle,—

Prood, swagg’ring i’ my fine reed claes:

Odds heft! my pit claes—dist thou hear?

Are waurse o’ wear;

Mind cloot them weel, when aw’s away;

An’ a posie gown

Aw’ll buy thee soon,

An’ thou’s drink thy tea—aye, twice a-day,

When aw come frae Newcassel.

Becrike! aw’s up tiv every rig,

Sae dinna doot, ma hinny!

But at the Blue stane o’ the Brig

Aw’ll ha’e ma mairching Ginny.

A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet

Ma een wi’ joy will dazzle;

But aw’ll hed spent that verra neet—

For money, hinny! owre neet to keep,

Wad brick ma sleep:

Sae, smash! aw thinks’t a wiser way,

Wi’ flesh and beer

Mysel’ to cheer,

The lang three weeks that aw’ve to stay,

A sougering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the sairgent’s tongue aw hear,

“Fa’ in! fa’ in!” he’s yelpin:

The fifes are whusslin’ lood an’ clear,

An’ sair the drums they’re skelpin.

Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang,

The Gen’ral’s een to dazzle;

But, hinny! if the time seems lang,

And thou freets about me neet an’ day;

Then come away,

Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,

An’ we’ll kiss and cuddle;

An’ mony a fuddle

Sall drive the langsome hours away,

When sougering at Newcassel.

Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows,

And aspects undaunted our Volunteers show,

Do you think, O my Delia! to join the brave fellows,

My heart beats impatient? O no, my love, no.

At the dawn of the day, their warm beds still forsaking,

To scamper thro’ bogs, or where prickly whins grow,

When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking,

Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no.

Array’d in full splendour, their arms brightly shining,

On guard or on picquet, when proudly they go,

(For the pleasures of permanent duty repining)

Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no.

Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder,

What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe,

I’ve determin’d to serve under Mr Recorder,

In the tip-staff battalion? O no, my love, no.

What means, my lov’d Delia! that frown, now appearing?

Why, why does your brow such severity show?

And wherefore those glances, so cold and uncheering?

Do you think me a poltroon? O no, my love, no.

Though I wear not a red coat, my honour’s untainted,—

To Coventry ne’er was I fated to go;

But, whilst with the plan of removal acquainted,

Can I, cruel, desert thee? O no, my love, no.

Soon war from thy home may a fugitive send thee,

Soon give thee of keels and their huddocks to know;

In the Voyage to Newburn who’ll succour and tend thee;

Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no.

Then wear not my Delia! an aspect so chilling,

Nor doubt that with ardour heroic I glow;

But love’s dear delights shall I barter for drilling?

That smile methinks answers,—“O no, my love, no.”

Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ our island rebellows,

And aspects terrific proud Frenchmen still show,

Do you think, O my Colin! to join our brave fellows

I e’er would forbid you? O no, my love, no.

At the dawn of the day, my bed cheerly forsaking,

I’d scamper thro’ bogs, or where prickly whins grow;

On a view of your martial manœuvres partaking,

I vow ne’er to leave you: O no, my love, no.

Array’d in full splendour, your arms brightly shining,

On guard or on picquet, when proudly you go,

Or on permanent duty, do you think that, repining,

I’d sighing reprove you? O no, my love, no.

Or when you are called to quell rude disorder,

Or with brother heroes shall face the dread foe,

If my honour I trusted to Mr Recorder,

Will he fail to protect me? O no, my love, no.

What means, then, my Colin! that cold sweat appearing?

Why, why should your brow such timidity show?

And where are those glances so cold and uncheering?

Shall I think you a poltroon? O no, my love, no.

Then, haste, wear a red coat, while your honour’s untainted,

Or to Coventry you may be fated to go;

And tho’ with the plan of removal acquainted,

I’ll not go to Newburn: O no, my love, no.

Soon War from my home may a fugitive send me,

And which way, or how, I’m not anxious to know;

For I’ll follow the lads that are arm’d to defend me:

Shall the task be another’s? O no, my love, no.

Then wear not, my Colin! an aspect so chilling,

Let your breast now with ardour heroic but glow,

Then love’s dear delights will I barter for drilling:

You sure can’t refuse me? O no, my love, no.

As me and my marrow was ganning to wark,

We met with the devil, it was in the dark;

I up with my pick, it being in the neit,

I knock’d off his horns, likewise his club feet.

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!

Follow them through, my canny lad oh!

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!

Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh!

As me and my marrow was putting the tram,

The lowe it went out, and my marrow went wrang;

You would have laugh’d had you seen the gam,

The deil gat my marrow, but I gat the tram,

Follow the horses, &c.

Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, what dost thou think?

I’ve broken my bottle, and spilt a’ my drink;

I lost a’ my shin-splints among the great stanes,

Draw me t’ the shaft, it’s time to gan hame.

Follow the horses, &c.

Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, where hast thou been?

Driving the drift from the low seam,

Driving the drift from the low seam:

Had up the lowe, lad, deil stop out thy een!

Follow the horses, &c.

Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, this is wor pay week,

We’ll get penny loaves and drink to our beek;

And we’ll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go,

Follow the horses, Johnny lad oh!

Follow the horses, &c.

There is my horse, and there is my tram;

Twee horns full of greese will make her to gang;

There is my hoggars, likewise my half shoon,

And smash my heart, marrow, my putting’s a’ done.

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!

Follow them through my canny lad oh!

Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh!

Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh!

If I had another penny,

I would have another gill;

I would make the fidlers play

The Bonny Lads of Byker Hill.

Byker Hill and Walker Shore,

Collery lads for ever more;

Byker Hill and Walker Shore,

Collery lads for ever more.

When I cam to Walker wark,

I had ne coat nor ne pit sark;

But now aw’ve getten twe or three,

Walker pit’s deun weel for me.

Byker Hill and Walker shore,

Collery lads for ever more;

Byker Hill and Walker Shore,

Collery lads for ever more.

The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie,

The bonny pit laddie for me, O!

He sits in his hole as black as a coal,

And brings the white siller to me, O!

The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie,

The bonny pit laddie for me, O!

He sits on his cracket, and hews in his jacket,

And brings the white siller to me, O!

Hae ye heard o’ these wondrous dons,

That make this mighty fuss, man,

About invading Briton’s land?

I vow they’re wondrous spruce, man:

But little do the Frenchmen ken

About our loyal Englishmen;

Our collier lads are for cockades,

And guns to shoot the French, man.

Toll loll de roll de roll de roll.

Then to parade the pitmen went,

Wi’ hearts both stout and strong, man;

Gad smash the French, we are so strang,

We’ll shoot them ev’ry one, man:

Gad smash me sark if I would stick

To tumble them a’ down the pit,

As fast as I could thraw a coal,

I’d tumble them a’ down the hole,

And close her in aboon, man.

Toll loll, &c.

Heads up, says one, 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 my kutes?

Ad smash the fool, he stands and talks,

How can he learn me to walk,

That’s walk’d this forty year, man?

Toll loll, &c.

But should the Frenchmen shew their face

Upon our waggon ways, man,

Then there upon the road, you know,

We’d make them end their days, man:

Ay Bonaparte’s sel I’d take,

And throw him in the burning heap,

And with great speed I’d roast him deed;

His marrows then I wad nae heed,

We’d pick out a’ their een, man.

Toll loll, &c.

Says Willy Dunn to loyal Tom,

Your words are all a joke, man;

For Geordy winna hae your help,

Ye’re sic kamstarie fowk, man:

Then Willy lad, we’ll rest in peace,

In hopes that a’ the wars may cease;

But I’s gie ye, Wull, to understand,

As lang as I can wield my hand,

There’s nane but George shall reign, man.

Toll loll, &c.

Enough of this has shure been said,

Cry’d Cowardly Willy Dunn, man;

For should the Frenchmen come this way,

We’d be ready for to run, man.

Gad smash you for a fool, says Tom,

For if I could not use my gun,

I’d take my pick, I’d hew them down,

And run and cry through a’ the town,

God save great George our king, man.

Toll loll, &c.

The Baff week is o’er—no repining—

Pay-Saturday’s swift on the wing;

At length the blythe morning comes shining,

When kelter makes colliers sing:

’Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary,

The birds whistle sweet on the spray;

Now coal working lads, trim and airy,

To Newcastle town hie away.

Those married jog on with their hinnies,

Their canny bairns go by their side;

The daughters keep teazing their minnies

For new cloaths to keep up their pride:

They plead—Easter Sunday does fear them,

For, if they have nothing that’s new,

The Crow, spiteful bird! will besmear them;

Oh then! what a sight for to view!

The young men, full blithsome and jolly,

March forward, all decently clad;

Some lilting up, “Cut-and-dry, Dolly,”

Some singing, “The bonny Pit Lad:”

The pranks that were play’d at last binding

Engage some in humourous chat;

Some halt by the way-side on finding

Primroses to place in their hat.

Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley,

Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown,

In one jolly squad set off early

From Benwell to Newcastle town:

Such hewers as they (none need doubt it)

Ne’er handled a shovel or pick;

In high or low seam they could suit it,

In regions next door to Old Nick.

Some went to buy hats and new jackets,

And others to see a bit fun;

And some wanted leather and tackets

To cobble their canny pit shoon:

Save the ribbon Dick’s dear had requested,

(Aware he had plenty of chink)

There was no other care him infested,

Unless ’twere his care for good drink.

[In the morning the dry man advances

To purl-shop to toss off a gill,

Ne’er dreading the ills and mischances

Attending on those who sit still:

The drink, Reason’s monitor quelling,

Inflames both the brain and the eyes;

The inchantment commenc’d, there’s no telling

When care-drowning tipplers will rise.

O Malt! we acknowledge thy powers

What good and what ill dost thou brew!

Our good friend in moderate hours—

Our enemy when we get fu’:

Could thy vot’ries avoid the fell furies

So often awaken’d by thee,

We would seldom need Judges or Juries

To send folk to Tyburn tree!]

At length in Newcastle they centre—

In Hardy’s,[4] a house much renown’d,

The jovial company enter,

Where stores of good liquor abound:

As quick as the servants could fill it,

(Till emptied was quarts half a score)

With heart-burning thirst down they swill it,

And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated,

Young cock-fighting Ned from the Fell [5]

Peep’d in—his “How dye?” repeated,

And hop’d they were all very well;

He swore he was pleased to see them—

One rose up to make him sit down,

And join in good fellowship wi’ them,

For him they would spend their last crown.

The liquor beginning to warm them,

In friendship the closer they knit,

And tell and hear jokes—and, to charm them,

Comes Robin, from Denton-Bourn pit;

An odd witty, comical fellow,

At either a jest or a tale,

Especially when he was mellow

With drinking stout Newcastle ale.

With bousing, and laughing, and smoking,

The time slippeth swiftly away;

And while they are ranting and joking

The church-clock proclaims it mid-day;

And now for black-puddings, long measure,

They go to Tib Trollibag’s stand,

And away bear the glossy rich treasure,

With joy, like curl’d bugles in hand.

And now a choice house they agreed on,

Not far from the head of the Quay;

Where they their black puddings might feed on

And spend the remains of the day;

Where pipers and fiddlers resorted,

To pick up the straggling pence,

And where the pit lads often sported

Their money at Fiddle and Dance.

Blind Willie [6] the fidler sat scraping,

In corner just as they went in:

Some Willington callants were shaking

Their feet to his musical din:

Jack vow’d he would have some fine cap’ring,

As soon as their dinner was o’er,

With the lassie that wore the white apron,

Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased,

And gullets well clear’d with a glass,

Jack rose from the table and seized

The hand of the frolicsome lass.

“Ma hinny!” says he, “pray excuse me—

To ask thee to dance I make free.”

She reply’d, “I’d be loth to refuse thee!

Now fiddler play—“Jigging for me.””

The damsel displays all her graces,

The collier exerts all his power,

They caper in circling paces,

And set at each end of the floor:

He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle,

At turns of the music so sweet

He makes such a thundering brattle,

The floor seems afraid of his feet.

This couple being seated, rose Bob up,

He wish’d to make one in a jig;

But a Wellington lad set his gob up,—

O’er him there should none “run the rig.”

For now ’twas his turn for a caper,

And he would dance first as he’d rose;

Bob’s passion beginning to vapour,

He twisted his opponent’s nose.

The Willington lads, for their Franky,

Jump’d up, to revenge the foul deed;

And those in behalf of Bob Cranky

Sprung forward—for now there was need.

Bob canted the form, with a kevel,

As he was exerting his strength;

But he got on the lug such a nevel,

That down he came all his long length.

Tom Brown, from behind the long table,

Impatient to join in the fight,

Made a spring, some rude foe to disable,

For he was a man of some might:

Misfortune, alas! was attending,

An accident fill’d him with fear;

An old rusty nail his flesh rending,

Oblig’d him to slink in the rear.

When sober, a mild man was Marley,

More apt to join friends than make foes;

But rais’d by the juice of the barley,

He put in some sobbling blows.

And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector,

A courageous fellow, and stout:

He stood their bold friend and protector,

And thump’d the opponents about.

All hand-over-head, topsy turvy,

They struck with fists, elbows, and feet,

A Wellington callant, called Gurvy,

Was top-tails tost over the seat:

Luke Carr had one eye clos’d entire;

And what is a serio-farce,

Poor Robin was cast on the fire,

His breeks torn and burnt off his a—e.

Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?

Disaster now makes thee quite mum;

Thy wit could not save the good breeches,

That mencefully cover’d thy bum:

To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging,

And lug out some squandering coins;

For now ’tis too late to be grudging,—

Thou cannot go home with bare groins.

How the warfaring companies parted,

The Muse chuseth not to proclaim;

But, ’tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted,

They quietly went—“toddling hame.”

Now ye Collier callants, so clever,

Residing ’tween Tyne and the Wear,

Beware, when you fuddle together,

Of making too free with strong beer.

MY LORD ’SIZE;
Or, Newcastle in an Uproar.

BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY.

BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT.

THE BONNY GEATSIDERS.—1805.

BOB CRANKY’s ADIEU.

O NO, MY LOVE, NO.

DELIA’s ANSWER.

THE COLLIERS RANT.

WALKER PITS.

THE BONNY PIT LADDIE.

THE PITMAN’s REVENGE AGAINST BUONAPARTE.

THE COLLIERS’ PAY WEEK.