At home wad I be,
And my supper wad I see,
And marry with a lass
Of my own country.
If I were at hame,
I wad ne’er return agean,
But marry with a lass
In my own country.
There’s the oak and the ash,
And the bonny ivy tree;
How canst thou gan away, love,
And leave me?
O stay, my love, stay,
And do not gang away;
O stay, my love, stay,
Along with me.

A YOU A, HINNY BURD.

For an explanation of this title, see Brand’s Popular Antiquities.

Its O but I ken well,
A you, hinny burd,
The bonny lass of Benwell;
A you a.
She’s lang legg’d and mother like,
A you, hinny burd;
See she’s raking up the dyke,
A you a.
The Quayside for sailors,
A you, hinny burd;
The Castle Garth for Tailors,
A you a.
The Gateshead Hills for Millers,
A you, hinny burd;
The North Shore for keelers,
A you a.
There’s Sandgate for aud rags,
A you, hinny burd;
And Gallowgate for trolly bags,
A you a.
There’s Denton and Kenton,
A you, hinny burd;
And canny Lang Benton,
A you a.
There’s Tynemouth and Cullercoats,
A you, hinny burd;
And Shields for the sculler boats,
A you a.
There’s Horton and Holywell,
A you, hinny burd;
And bonny Seaton Delaval,
A you a.
Hartley Pans for sailors,
A you, hinny burd;
And Bedlington for nailors,
A you a.

UP THE RAW.

Up the raw, ma bonny hinny,
Up the raw, lass, every day;
For shape and colour, ma bonny hinny,
Thou bangs thy mother, ma canny bairn.
Up the raw, ma bonny hinny,
Thou BANGS THEM A’, lass every day;
Thou’s a’ clagcanded, ma bonny hinny,
Thou’s double japanded, ma canny bairn.
For hide and hue, ma bonny hinny,
Thou bangs the crew, my canny bairn;
Up the raw, ma bonny hinny,
Thou bangs them a’, lass, ma canny bairn.

BROOM BUSOMS.

Besoms, so pronounced.

If ye want a busom,
For to sweep your house;
Come to me, my lasses,
Ye ma ha’ your choose.
Buy broom busoms,
Buy them when they’re new;
Buy broom busoms,
Better never grew.
If I had a horse,
I would have a cart;
If I had a wife,
She would take my part.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
Had I but a wife,
I care not who she be;
If she be a woman,
That’s enough for me.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
If she lik’d a drop,
Her and I’d agree;
If she did not like it,
There’s the more for me.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

To the foregoing Verses, Blind Willy (the native Minstrel of Newcastle) has added the following simple Rhymes:—

Up the Butcher Bank,
And down Byker Chare;
There you’ll see the lasses,
Selling brown ware.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
Along the Quayside,
Stop at Russell’s Entry;
There you’ll see the beer drawer,
She is standing sentry.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
If you want an oyster,
For to taste your mouth,
Call at Handy Walker’s,
He’s a bonny youth.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
Call at Mr Loggie’s,
He does sell good wine;
There you’ll see the beer drawer,
She is very fine.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
If you want an orange,
Ripe and full of juice;
Gan to Hannah Black,
There you’ll get your choose.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
Call at Mr Turner’s,
At the Queen’s Head;
He’ll not set you away,
Without a piece bread.
Buy broom busoms, &c.
Down the river side,
As far as Dent’s Hole;
There you’ll see the cuckolds,
Working at the coal.
Buy broom busoms, &c.

THE WAGGONER.

Saw ye owt o’ ma’ lad,
Gang down the waggon way?
His pocket full of money,
And his poke full of hay.
Aye but he’s a bonny lad,
As ever ye did see;
Tho’ he’s sair pock brocken,
And he’s blind of an e’e.
There’s ne’er a lad like ma’ lad,
Drives to a staith on Tyne;
Tho’ coal-black on work days,
On holidays he’s fine.
Ma’ lad’s a bonny lad,
The bonniest I see;
Wiv his fine posey waistcoat,
And buckles at his knee.

BRANDLING AND RIDLEY.

Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye,
Brandling and Ridley carries the day!
Brandling for ever, and Ridley for aye,
There’s plenty of coals on our waggon way.
There’s wood for to cut, and coals for to hew,
And the bright star of Heaton will carry us through:
Ridley for ever, and Brandling for aye,
There’s plenty of coals on our waggon way.

MY LADDIE.

My laddie sits owre late up,
My laddie sits owre late up,
My laddie sits owre late up,
With the pint pot and the cup.
How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn,
How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn,
How Johnny cum hame to yur bairn,
Wiv a rye loaf under yur airm.
He addles three ha’pence a week,
That’s nobbit a fardin a day;
He sits with a pipe in his cheek,
And he fuddles his money away.
My laddie is never the near,
My laddie is never the near:
And when I cry out, “Lad, cum hame!”
He calls out again for mair beer.
My laddie sits, &c.

THE SANDGATE LASSIE’s LAMENT.

BY HENRY ROBSON.

They’ve prest my dear Johnny,
Sae sprightly and bonny,—
Alack! I shall ne’er mair d’ weel, O:
The kidnapping squad,
Laid hold of my lad,
As he was unmooring the keel, O.
O my sweet laddie,
My canny keel laddie,
Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O;
Had he staid on the Tyne,
Ere now he’d been mine,
But oh! he’s far over the sea, O.
Should he fall by commotion,
Or sink in the ocean,
(May sick tidings ne’er come to the Key, O)
I could ne’er mair be glad,
For the loss of my lad
Wad break my poor heart, and I’d dee, O!
O my sweet laddie, &c.
But should my dear tar
Come safe from the war,
What heart-bounding joy wad I feel, O;
To the church we wad flee,
And married be,
And again he shall row in his keel, O.
O my sweet laddie, &c.
O my sweet laddie,
My canny keel laddie,
Sae handsome, sae canty, and free, O:
Tho’ far from the Tyne,
I still hope he’ll be mine,
And live happy as any can be, O.
O my sweet laddie, &c.

THE INVITATION.

Neighbours I’m come for to tell ye, our skipper and Moll’s to be wed,
And if it be true what they’re saying, egad we’ll be all rarely fed;
They’ve brought home a shoulder of mutton, besides two thumping fat geese,
And when at the fire they’re roasting, we’re all to have sops in the grease.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
And there’ll be pies and spice dumplings, and there’ll be bacon and peas;
Besides a great lump of beef boiled, and they may get crowdies who please:
To eat such good things as these are, I’m sure ye’ve but seldom the luck;
Beside, for to make us some pottage, there’ll be a sheep’s head and a pluck.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
Of sausages there’ll be plenty, black puddings, sheep fat, and neats’ tripes;
Besides, for to warm all your noses, great store of tobacco and pipes:
A room, they say, there’s provided for us at “The Old Jacob’s Well;”
The bridegroom he went there this morning, and spoke for a barrel o’ yell.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
There’s sure to be those things I’ve mention’d, and many things else, and I learn,
White bread and butter and sugar, there’s to please every bonny young bairn:
Of each dish and glass you’ll be welcome to eat and to drink ’till you stare;
I’ve told you what meat’s to be at it, I’ll tell you next who’s to be there.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
Why there’ll be Peter the hangman, who flogs folks at the cart tail,
And Bob, with his new sark and ruffle, made out of an old keel sail!
And Tib on the Quay, who sells oysters, whose mother oft strove to persuade,
To keep her from the lads, but she would’nt, untill she got by them betray’d.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
And there’ll be Sandy the cobler, whose belly’s as round as a cag,
And Doll, with her short petticoats, to display her white stockings and leg;
And Sall, who when snug in a corner, a sixpence they say won’t refuse,
She curs’d when her father was drown’d, because he had on his new shoes.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
And there’ll be Sam the quack doctor, of skill and profession he’ll crack;
And Jack who would fain be a soldier, but for a great hump on his back;
And Tom in the streets for his living, who grinds razors, scissars, and knives;
And two or three merry old women, that calls, “Mugs and dublers, wives.”
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.
But neighbours, I’d almost forgot, for to tell ye exactly at one,
The dinner will be on the table, and music will play ’till its done:
When you’ll be all heartily welcome, of this merry feast for to share,
But if you won’t come at this bidding, why then you may stay where you are.
Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle.

A SONG,

written and sung by H.F.H. at the opening of Jarrow Colliery, September 26th, 1803.

Old Jarrow, long-fam’d for monastical lore,
Where Bede, rusty manuscripts search’d o’er and o’er;
Now see us assembl’d, upon her green swa’d,
With faces all smiling, and spirits full glad.
Fal lal de ral la.
No long chaunt of Friars now steals thro’ her glooms,
No lazy cowl’d monk now her viands consumes;
But chearful the strain which our voices upraise,
And active the man, who partakes of our praise.
Fal lal de ral la.
Yet still in researches her sons shew their might,
Still labour in darkness to bring good to light:
Thro’ legends and fables the friars explor’d,
Thro’ strata of rubbish the miners have bor’d.
Fal lal de ral la.
The labours of both with success have been crown’d,
And the miner to Bede is in gratitude bound;
For while ignorance reign’d from the line to the pole,
In convents the nooks preserv’d sciences—Coal.
Fal lal de ral la.
By science and spirit what great deeds are done,
By the union of these, this rich Coal Pit is won:
And safe from their labours, the lads of the mine,
Now foot it away with the girls of the Tyne.
Fal lal de ral la.
On ship-board soon plac’d, and impel’d by the gale,
For Augusta’s proud towers the produce will sail;
Employment it gives to th’ indust’rous and brave,
And its trade’s the best nurse for the sons of the wave.
Fal lal de ral la.
Hail, commerce! thou parent of Albion’s weal,
Let Frenchmen still brandish their threatening steel,
To drag thee from England, her sons will not yield,
They’ll carry thee on, yet prepare for the field.
Fal lal de ral la.
These brave lads around us, their tools will lay down,
And fight for their country, their king, and his crown!
But the Frenchmen destroy’d, or drove back to the main,
They’ll take up the Pick-axe and shovel again.
Fal lal de ral la.
In union thus ever be commerce and arms,
When a tyrant’s ambition creates it alarms;
And secure in their courage, let Britons still sing,
Britannia triumphant, and God save the king!
Fal lal de ral la.
Your glasses now fill to the lord of the mine,
And drink him long life in a goblet of wine:
On this joyous day let no bosom be sad,
But bumper it round to “the bonny pit lad.”
Fal lal de ral la.

A SOUTH SHIELDS SONG
ON THE SAILORS.

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 smoky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle;
Up with smoky Shields,
And hey for bonny Newcastle.

A NORTH SHIELDS SONG.

We’ll all away to the Lowlights,
And there we’ll see the sailors come in;
We’ll all away to the Lowlights,
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.

MONKSEATON RACES.

July 1st, 1812.

BY A SPECTATOR.

Six centuries since, some say, a son of South Seaton[79],
Was mulct for a monk he to mummy had beaten;
The prior there pilfer’d the prow of a pig,
And Delaval drub’d well the pillaging prig!
In commemoration of that great event,
Each anniversary in eclat is spent:
Though landlords liege-legates are bound to obey,
That country carousal’s kept up to this day.
A sum by subscription was quickly collected,
As none to contribute their quota objected;
Half-guineas the highest, the lowest a shilling;
And seamen and landmen were equally willing:
Hence hand-bills were pasted up in public places,
To state both the time and the term of these races;
Explaining the prizes, and pastoral plays,
Prolonging these pastimes the space of three days.
The stewards instructed the cash to collect,
Kept debtor and creditor scrolls quite correct;
To purchase such prizes as were preconcerted,
The coin was with consummate caution converted;
To furnish out fun for friends, strangers, and neighbours,
These gents to gymnastics gave gratis their labours;
Lest fair play, by precepts, might not be promoted,
From the racing calendar cases they quoted.
Quaff-cups for quadrupeds accustom’d to courses,
And handsome cart-harness for husbandry horses;
With saddles and bridles for hunters and hacks,
And plate spurs for ponies that pay no Pitt-tax:
Spring whips made for mules, and good armour for asses,
And harlequin habits for lads and for lasses;
Gloves, hats, hose, and handkerchiefs, shirts, shifts, and shoes,
To run, gape, or grin for, as candidates choose.
With multitudes mingled the turf was attended,
Like barley and beans, there the belles and beaux blended;
From town and the country such numbers assembled,
The race-ground a Newcastle meeting resembled;
Which cohorts all creeds and conditions comprised,
And dresses, distinctions, and deserts disguised;
By vintners made vivid, their views became various,
Amusements were many, and mirth multifarious.
The racers (at Watson’s) were regularly enter’d,
And money at booking was formally ventur’d;
A Newmarket rider, rear’d in racing stables,
Conversant in quirks, and acquainted with cabals;
Whose powers of profession were priz’d upon paction,
And principles privately put up to auction:
Some Monkseaton farmers on fraud plac’d affiance,
But saw in the sequel their rotten reliance.
By bribing that brigand, this son of deception
Receiv’d ready rhino, yet made his election;
This presto, his pupils to peasants prefer’d;
In bilking his brethren, the eft would have err’d!
To gull’d speculators, a vulcan as vile,
Stak’d too with turf-students in tangible style,
Till duped delinquents were doom’d through the day,
Their debts of dishonour on peril to pay.
Corruption creeps into both commerce and courts,
Then who can repel it from rural resorts?
As all public places are pester’d with prowlers,
The streets are stagnated with stigmatiz’d strollers;
And some sanguine swindlers, though subtile and snug,
Plunge into the pit they for others had dug;
The same at Monkseaton, the mass must admit,
(With self-satisfaction) “The biters were bit”!!!

[79] South Seaton, so called at the time; but afterwards Monk Seaton, where —— Delaval, Esq. so completely castigated a covetous capuchin as to cause his death; for so doing, however, great part of his possessions were forfeited.—See the History of Tynemouth.

THE ALARM!!!
Or, Lord Fauconberg’s March.

On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion House, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad Chare, and then marched back again.

God prosper long our warlike king,
And noblemen also,
Who valiantly, with sword in hand,
Doth guard us from each foe.
No sooner did lord Fauconberg,
With heart undaunted, hear
That news to Gotham had been brought,
Which caus’d our mayor to fear.
Then up he rose, with eyes on fire,
Most dreadful to the view;
To arms! to arms! aloud he cry’d,
And forth his faulchion drew.
To arms! to arms! full long and sore,
The rattling drums did beat;
To arms! in haste! each soldier flies,
And scours thro’ ev’ry street.
The women shriek, and wring their hands,
Their children weep around;
Whilst some, more wise, fast bolt their doors,
And hide them under ground.
The French are at our gates, they cry,
And we shall all be slain;
For Dumourier is at their head,
And that arch traitor Paine.
In haste drawn up, in fair array,
Our Yorkshire guards are seen;
And mounted on a jet black stud,
Lord Fauconberg, I ween,—
Who bravely gave the word to march,
And furiously did ride;
And prancing first, great Brunswick like,
’Twas well the streets were wide.
From Newgate, down to the Broad Chare,
They march’d with might and main;
Then gallantly they turned them round,
And so “march’d up again.”
Then fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink to Gotham’s mayor;
And when again he hears such news,
May Fauconberg be there.

THE PATRIOT VOLUNTEERS:
OR,
Loyally Display’d.

BY CLARINDA.

In the year 1795, a corps of volunteers were raised in Newcastle, consisting of one grenadier, one light infantry, and two batallion companies, they received their colours in the Forth, from Mrs Mayoress, August 25th, 1795.

There is not in the world’s terraqueous round,
A better king or constitution found,
Than lov’d Britannia’s sea girt Realms can claim,
As rich in Blessings, as renown’d in Fame;
Her laws, and Social Liberty, design’d,
To perfect happiness, and dignify mankind.
These to preserve, through each succeeding Age,
Our Patriot Volunteers with zeal engage.
Behold them brilliant on the shores of Tyne,
Newcastle Heroes Gateshead Heroes join!
All free-born Sons, they Freedom’s Rights defend,
And each to each secures a steady Friend!
Whilst snarling Disaffection slinks away,
These Hearts of Gold true loyalty display;
These Hearts of Gold this Standard Truth proclaim,
Our King and Constitution are the same!
Advance, Brave Men! assert your Country’s Cause,
Exertions only can support her Laws.
For Vigilence, precarious Moments call,
The danger’s obvious, and concerns us All.
A cool supineness, timid hearts may try,
But manly courage must the means supply.
Sue we for Peace? that Peace is surest found,
Where honest fortitude maintains its ground.
We have at home, alas! some secret foes,
Which, well as Frenchmen, valour must oppose.
Though savage Terrorists their Schemes pursue,
And still mislead a blind ungrateful Crew;
Keep ye but firm, the martial Charge to bear,
Your brave Associates and yourselves revere?
Ferocious Monsters must e’er long decline,
And Moderation draw her equal Line:
So shall ye meet a Nation’s highest praise,
And Love and Beauty crown your future Days;
For Love and Beauty ever wait on Fame,
Each Hero’s glory, and triumphal Claim.

Newcastle, Forth House, 1st July, 1795.

CULL, alias SILLY BILLY,
Of Newcastle upon Tyne.

This well known character, William Scott, commonly called Cull Billy, a name known in most parts of the north, is a native of Newcastle, where he resided along with his mother, a poor old woman, who made her living by retailing wooden ware; she like her son was an object of distress, being not above four feet high.

Billy, poor man, oft excited compassion from his fellow creatures, while reciting (which he did with a great degree of exactness, and in such a distinct and clear manner as to surprise many) the Lord’s Prayer, several other prayers, passages from scripture, &c. to a numerous audience of boys; but they generally repaid his endeavours for their welfare with a shower of dirt or stones.

Oft have they followed him around the streets, beating and hooting him, as boys hunt a cat or dog; and yet no notice was taken of this, until one, more compassionate than the rest, stept forward and interceded for him, in the following lines, which were published in the Newcastle Chronicle of the 28th of August, 1802, with the signature of J.S.

Whence those cries, my soul that harrow?
Whence those yells, that wound my ear?
’Tis the hapless child of sorrow!
’Tis poor Billy’s plaint I hear.
Now, in tatter’d plight I see him,
Teazing crowds around him press;
Ah! will none from insult free him?
None his injuries redress?
Fill’d with many a fearful notion,
Now he utters piercing cries;
Starting now, with sudden motion,
Swiftly thro’ the streets he hies.
Poor, forlorn, and hapless creature,
Victim of insanity!
Sure it speaks a ruthless nature,
To oppress a wretch like thee.
When, by generous friends protected,
All thy actions told thee mild,
Tho’ by reason undirected,
And the prey of fancies wild.
Of those friends did Heav’n deprive thee,
None, alas! supply’d their place?
And to madness now to drive thee,
Ceaseless strives a cruel race.
Youth forlorn! tho’ crowds deride thee,
Gentle minds for thee must grieve;
Back to reason, wish to guide thee,
And thy ev’ry want relieve,
O from this sad state to snatch thee,
Why delay the good and kind?
Pity calls them on to watch thee,
And to tranquilize thy mind.

Soon after the publication of this, the overseers of the parish of Saint John’s, (in which parish Billy resided) had him conveyed to their Poor House, without the walls of Newcastle, where he was kept confined until the turbulence of his spirit was reduced.

Several persons have felt the power of Billy’s wit, which on some occasions has been very severe. Once, when a person of the name of —— (not one of the wisest beings of the world) came swaggering out of a tavern, while Bill was haranguing the mob at the door. “Stand out of the way!” cries this would-be great man, shaking his cane in the air, “Stand out of the way! I never give way to fools!” “But I do,” cries Billy, bowing, and instantly stept on the pavement: Mr —— felt the severity of this remark, and instantly made off, leaving the spectators of the transaction almost convulsed with laughter.

CANNY NEWCASSEL.

By T.T. of Newcastle.

’Bout Lunnun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes,
That the streets were a’ cover’d wi’ guineas:
The houses se fine, sec grandees the folks,
Te them hus i’ th’ north were but ninnies.
But aw fand ma sel blonk’d when to Lunnun I gat,
The folks they a’ luck’d wishy washy;
For gould ye may howk ’till ye’re blind as a bat,
For their streets are like wors—brave and blashy!
’Bout Lunnun then, div’nt ye mak sic a rout,
There’s nouse there ma winkers to dazzle,
For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about,
We can marra iv canny Newcassel.
A Cockney chep show’d me the Thames’ druvy feace,
Whilk he said was the pride o’ the nation;
And thought at their shippin aw’d maek a haze gaze;
But aw whop’d ma foot on his noration.
Wi’ hus, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide,
We think nouse on’t, aw’ll maek accydavy:
Ye’re a gouck if ye din’t knaw that the lads o’ Tyne side,
Are the Jacks that maek famish wor navy.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
We went big St Paul’s and Westminster to see,
And aw warnt ye aw thought they luck’d pretty:
And then we’d a keek at the Monument te,
Whilk ma friend ca’d the pearl o’ the city.
Wey hinny, says aw, we’ve a Shot Tower se hee,
That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven;
And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus’ an e’e,
Ye’d crack on’t as lang as ye’re livin.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
We trudg’d to St James’s, for there the king lives,
Aw warn’d ye a good stare we teuck on’t;
By my faicks its been built up by Adam’s aun neaves,
For it’s aud as the hills, by the leuk on’t:
Shem bin ye, says I, ye shou’d keep the king douse,
I speak it without ony malice:
Aw own that wor mayor rather wants a new house,
But then wor Infirmary’s a palace.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
Ah hinnies! out cum the king while we were there,
His leuks seem’d to say, Bairns be happy;
So down o’ my hunkers aw set up a blare,
For God to preserve him frae Nappy;
For Geordy aw’d die, for my loyalty’s trig,
And aw own he’s a geud leuken mannie;
But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig,
By gocks, he wad just leuk as canny.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did loup,
Thick as curns in a spice singin hinnie;
Some aud, and some hardly flig’d owr the doup,
But aw kend what they were by their whinnie:
A’, mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tite girl,
But aw’m tell’d they’re oft het i’ their trappin:
Aw’d cuddle much rather a lass i’ the Sworl,
Than the dolls i’ the Strand, or i’ Wappin.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
Wiv a’ the stravaging aw wanted a munch,
An’ ma thropple was ready te gizen;
So we went tiv a yell house, and there teuk a lunch,
But the reck’ning, my saul! was a bizon:
Wiv hus i’ th’ North, when aw’m wairsh i’ my way,
(But te knaw wor warm hearts, ye yur sell come)
Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say,
“Cruck your hough, canny man, for ye’re welcome.”
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
A shillin aw thought at the Play-house aw’d ware,
But aw jump’d there wiv heuk-finger’d people;
My pockets gat rip’d, and aw heard ne mair,
Nor aw could frae Saint Nicholas’s steeple.
Dang Lunnan! wor Play-house aw like just as weel,
And wor play-folks aw’s shure are as funny:
A shillin’s worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel,
Ne hallion there thrimmels ma money.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.
The loss o’ the cotterels aw dinna regaird,
For aw’ve getten some white-heft o’ Lunnun;
Aw’ve learn’d to prefer my awn canny calf yaird;
If ye catch me mair fra’t, ye’ll be cunnun.
Aw knaw that the Cockneys crake rum-gum-shus chimes,
To maek gam of wor bur, and wor ’parel;
But honest Blind Willy shall string this iv rhymes,
And aw’ll sing’d for a Christmas Carol.
’Bout Lunnun, &c.

CROAKUM REDIVIVUS.

The Crow’s account of Newcastle, on her return to that Town in January, 1812.

ADDRESSED TO A BROTHER CROW.