THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir,

Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn.

And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir,

To get themselves shav’d in a rotative turn;

Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir,

Debate—till at length they quite heated have grown;

May nothing escape, Sir, until Madame Scrape, Sir,

Cries, “Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?”

A medley the place is, of those that sell laces,

With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets;

Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting,

And ask one another how trade with them sets:

Join’d in with Tom Hoggars and little Bob Nackers,

Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills;

And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir,

That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills.

There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats,

Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best:

There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded,

If they’re not shav’d first while their keel’s at the Fest;

With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost,

Thro’ off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair;

While others stand looking, and think it provoking,

But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.

When under the chin, Sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir,

Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff;

And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting,

And looking around with an air fierce and bluff:

Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir,

And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;

But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir,

With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes.

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir,

Then painful distortions take place on the brow;

But if they complain, Sir, they’ll find it in vain, Sir,

She’ll tell them there’s nought but what Patience can do;

And as she scrapes round ’em, if she by chance wound ’em,

They’ll cry out as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life,

“’Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood’s coming,

“I’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!”

For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir,

And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool;

Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir:

But she gives them for answer, “Sit still you pist fool!”

For all their repining, their twisting and twining,

She forward proceeds till she’s mown off the hair;

When finish’d, cries, “There Sir;” then straight from the chair, Sir,

They’ll jump, crying, “Daresay you’ve scrap’d the bone bare!”

Lads! myek a ring,

An’ hear huz sing

The sport we had at Swalwell-o;

Wour merry play,

O’ th’ Hoppen day?

Howay! marrows, an’ aw’ll tell you-o.

The sun shines warm on Whickham bank,

Let’s aw lye down at Dolly’s-o,

An’ hear ’bout mony a funny prank

Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o.

There was Sam, O zoons!

Wiv’s pantaloons,

An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o;

An’ Willy, thou,

Wi’ th’ jacket blue,

Thou was the varra Bobby-o:

There was knack knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit,

An’ hopper-a—s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o:

Great Tom was there wi’ H—ple’s awd coat,

An’ bucksheen’d Bob fra Stella-o.

When we wour drest,

It was confest,

We shemm’d the cheps fra Newcassel-o:

So away we set

To wour town gyet,

To jeer them a’ as they pass’d us-o;

We shouted some, and some dung down—

Lobstrop’lus fellows, we kick’d them-o:

Some culls went hyem, some crush’d to town,

Some gat about by Whickham-o.

The spree com on—

The hat was won

By carrot-pow’d Jenny’s Jacky-o:

What a fyess, begok!

Had buckle-mouth’d Jock,

When he twin’d his jaws for the backy-o!

The kilted lasses fell tid pell mell,

Wi’—Tally-i-o the grinder-o—

The smock was gi’en to slavering Nell;

Ye’d dropp’d had ye been behind her-o.

Wour dance began,

Awd buck-tyuth’d Nan,

An’, Geordy, thou’d Jen Collin-o:

While the merry black,

Wi’ monny a crack,

Set the tamborine a rolling-o.

Like wour forge hammer we bet se true,

An shuk Raw’s house se soundly-o:

Tuff canna cum up wi’ Crowley’s crew,

Nor thump the tune se roundly-o.

Then Gyetside Jack,

Wiv’s bloody back,

Wad dance wi’ goggle-ey’d Mally-o;

But up cam Nick,

An’ gav him a kick,

An’ a canny bit kind of a fally-o:

That day a’ Hawk’s blacks may rue,—

They gat monny a verra sair clanker-o;

Can they de ouse wi’ Crowley’s crew,

Frev a needle tiv a anchor-o?

What’s that to say

To the bonny fray

We had wi’ skipper Robin-o:

The keel bullies a’,

Byeth great and sma’,

Myed a bu——ly tide o’ the Hoppen-o.

Gleed Will cry’d, Ma-a! up lup awd Frank,

An’ Robin that marry’d his dowter-o:

We hammer’d their ribs like a anchor shark

They fand it six weeks after-o.

Bald pyet Jone Carr

Wad hev a bit spar,

To help his marrows away wid-o:

But poor awd fellow,

He’d getten ower mellow,

So we down’d byeth him and Davy-o:

Then Petticoat Robin jumpt up agyen,

Wiv’s gully to mercykree huz a’,

But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen:

Hurro! for Crowley’s crew, boys a’!

Their hash was sattled,

So off we rattled,

An’ jigg’d it up se hearty-o?

Wi’ monny a shiver,

An’ lowp se clever,

Can Newcassel turn out sec a party-o?

When, wheit dyun ower, the fidlers went,

We stagger’d a hint see merry-o:

An’ thro’ wour town, till fairly spent,

Roar’d—Crowley’s Crew an’ Glory-o!

I was a young maiden truly,

And lived in Sandgate street;

I thought to marry a good-man,

To keep me warm at neit.

Some good-like body, some bonny body,

To be with me at noon;

But last I married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a parson,

To hear me say my prayers;

But I have married a keelman,

And he kicks me down the stairs.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a dyer,

To die my apron blue;

But I have married a keelman,

And he makes me sorely rue.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a joiner,

To make me chair and stool;

But I have married a keelman,

And he’s a perfect fool.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

I thought to marry a sailor,

To bring me sugar and tea;

But I have married a keelman,

And that he lets me see.

He’s an ugly body, a bubbly body,

An ill-far’d, ugly loon;

And I have married a keelman,

And my good days are done.

My muse took flight the other day,

And rambling carelessly, astray;

I set my thoughts a wand’ring too,

The fleeting rover to pursue.

Yet as she has an itching still,

To mount the great Parnassus hill,

I straightway thither did repair,

But found she never had been there;

That being too divine a place,

For her to chant unhallow’d lays;

When turning quick my eye around

On Tindale’s shore, the wand’rer found,

Where she was taking a survey,

Of all that in her compass lay;

A medley of such objects rose,

Which pen but faintly can disclose;

But being in a merry pin,

And to describe them did begin:—

Sandgate’s the devil’s besom sure,

With which oft times he sweeps the floor;

The air’s with glasshouse smoke infected,

Confusion of all kinds collected;

Nothing but murm’ring, noise, and swearing,

Shocks your conscience, grates your hearing.

The women black, red, tawny, grey,

Who seldom go to church to pray;

Who’s sides are ne’er to stays confin’d,

To cramp their natural ease behind.

Nor modestly do they think shame,

To act what I don’t chuse to name;

Nor do they stop, when they think meet,

To act their lewdness in the street;

Whole lots of them do nightly sport,

With black and grey, and every sort:

Oft in a cannhouse you may view,

A gang of this sweet scented crew.

Who when they grow a little mellow,

Begin to sing and swear and bellow;

Like madmen in a rage or fury,

Not fearing either judge or jury;

Nor do I err much when I tell,

They’ve little dread of heav’n or hell.

The wife her husband thus addresses,

With doubled fist and flowing tresses,—

“Come, Tom, make haste, let us away,

The tide flows high, we cannot stay.”

“Nay, answers Tom, deel smash my heart!

Let us but have the other quart.”

She then begins to sing a song,

Would frighten any man but Tom,—

“You idle spendthrift, scant of grace,

I wish I ne’er had seen your face;

A cleanlier lass was never bred,

When I came to your bridal bed.

Had fouth of claiths to clead my back,

But now I’ve scarce a single plack:

You’ve left me bare of bed and claiths,

Deel brust you, by your graceless ways;

And when you’re drunk as you can see,

Come home and curse the bairns and me.

Turn topsy turvy all the house,

And every thing in it abuse;

Throw all the dishes off the shelf,

The platters, dubblers, and the delf.

And set the plates and spoons, in joke,

A flying round the room like smoke:

And when your family’s in need,

And like to starve for want of breed,

You’ll grudge for haver-meal to pay,

To make them crowdies once a day.

These are your pranks, you murd’ring rogue,

That every day you have in vogue;

And if you do not mend your course,

I must go beg—or else do worse.”

Tom out his hand at last did stretch,

“What ails you now? you grumbling bitch,

Peace! or your hide I’ll soundly switch.

Do not I almost ev’ry day,

At the lang hinney’s o’er the way,

See Geordy Jenkin’s wife and you,

Drinking clove waters till you spue!

Go to the devil with your brats,

And vex me not with d——’d pit-rats,

That are not all of my begetting,

But plants of other people’s setting.

Since you have oft, by your confession,

From my embraces made digression,

Go home, G-d d—n your soul, and spin,

Or else, by L—d, I’ll lamb your skin.”

Thus fast unto destruction hasting,

Their health consuming, money wasting;

They drink, and ne’er for home declare,

Until they’re pockets are quite bare.

Here mangy Scots from banks of Tay,

With scarce a plaid to bear away;

Half-starv’d, they from the frozen North,

Like swarms of locusts, sally forth,

Worse than before, on Pharaoh’s land,

Were sent by the Almighty hand;

Such hardness of their hearts to purge,

And for their wickedness them scourge:

This mugletonian blackguard breed,

Upon our very vitals feed;

And, like the whelps of Juno’s pack,

Of Scots infection bring a smack;

When hither come, they seldom fail

To scrape the scabs from off their tail;

By artful tricks, and well form’d lies,

To skippers or such like, they rise:

And thus get breeches warm to wear,

To hide their a—e that then was bare;

And then set up their crops and talk,

As if they sprung from noble stalk.

At midnight these, and such like sots,

With noddles full, from stinking pots

Of rank geneva, and of rum,

They raise a scent where’er they come;

Reel, cursing, in a grumbling tone,

In some dark lane, where sun ne’er shone,

But darkness dire, surrounds the place,

An emblem of their foul disgrace:

Oft in a house decay’d with age,

Which scarce will bear the winter’s rage;

Whose crazy outshots threat’ning hing

About their ears, a peal to ring;

They tumble in one common bed,

Where all are there promiscuous laid;

And ten to one, but as they fall,

They break their heads against the wall;

Nor do they mind to choose their wives,

With whom they’re bound to lead their lives;

But to the first they come do keep,

Where, if they’re drunk, they fall asleep.

If not, there’s oft a general horning

Takes place before the next day morning.—

Gomorrah ne’er could fuller be

Than Sandgate with impiety,

So cramm’d with immorality

Is every one, that if there be

A place on earth resembling hell,

That lot on Sandgate surely fell:—

Each soul’s as bad as —— I’ll prove it.

This is Sandgate,—can you love it?

When war’s destructive rage did cease,

In fatal, humbling, eighty-three,[8]

And men were blest again with peace,

We wond’rous prodigies did see.

The Thirteen (once prescribed) States,

Doom’d by the hangman’s cord to die;

Great kings (so th’ will’d all pow’rful fates)

Before them almost prostrate lie.

Then fair Italia’s classic ground,

And rich Sicilia’s beauteous shore,

With palaces and temples crown’d,

Alas! alas! are now no more [9].

But stranger prodigies than these

Appear in Britain’s happy land,

(They say, “that wonders never cease,”)

For North and Fox go hand in hand.

R—h—d and S—d—ch, of one mind,

And all their mutual wrongs forgive,

(What wonders can be left behind!)

And henceforth like twin brothers live.

The frenzy seiz’d the feather’d race,

For (now when Pitt would mend the nation)

The crows on Captain Stephenson’s trees,

Sat, settling plans of reformation.

An aged Rook perch’d on a bough,

With hoary head and jetty wing,

His plumy neighbours round him drew,

And Britain’s fate he thus did sing.

“Listen, ye Crows, my brethren all,

And hear what my ill-boding mind

Fortells—Britannia soon must fall!

I snuff its ruin in the wind.

“For kings, by tyranny, have driven

Fair Freedom from Europa’s States;

(Freedom! thou choicest gift of Heaven!)

Then hear the doom fix’d by the fates:—

“Since men the heavenly gift despise,

And o’er th’ Atlantic Freedom’s fled,

Plagues, famine, tyranny, and wars shall rise,

And endless woes shall all succeed!

“Let’s search for th’ Achans in the camp,

That thus have caus’d our Israel’s woes;

—Yes, kings, and all the bishop-stamp,

I dread, have been the lurking foes!

“For never shall the land have peace,

As good Lord George [10], and David say?

Till from our isle we banish these,

And drive such rogues a-cross the sea.”

The sable crowd croak’d hoarse applause,

And highly charm’d were with th’ oration,

Till one fierce crow their notice draws,

Who thus address’d the feather’d nation:—

“Rebels accurs’d!” he frown’d and cried,

“How could you this old traitor hear?

Who thus dare kings and priests deride,

Whom men should worship and revere.

“I see your doom, ye trait’rous crew!”—

Th’ impatient throng would hear no more;

With furious bills they at him flew,

And in a moment had him tore——

Had he not clapt his wings and fled,

And taken refuge on th’ Exchange;

And from its top he bow’d his head,

And spoke the crowds that round him range:—

“Mortals, attend with reverend awe,

Mark well my words, Newcastle people,

I’ll do what yet you never saw,

I build my nest upon this steeple.

“From this most happy omen, know

What blessings shall to you be given;

What peace and choicest gifts shall flow

From the all-kind, all-bounteous heaven.

“And first of all shall taxes cease,

Provisions fall, and there shall be

Rich golden crops, the fruits of peace,

And choicest product of the sea.

“Then polish’d manners shall prevail;

—Would you believe!—but you shall see

Millers no more your corn shall steal;

And doctors cure without a fee.

“Lawyers by strife shall cease to thrive;

And what’s more strange—aye, is it not?

The milk, and every other tythe,

Shall all be dropt by Doctor Scott!

“Then Windydrum shall cease to sneer,

And Shorthorn shall turn wond’rous civil;[11]

And after them you scarce need fear

To cultivate the very devil!

“Another prodigy comes next,

(When my nest shall be builded here,)

Parsons shall live up to their text;

And keelmen then shall dread to swear.

“Fish-women, too, shall then forget

To call their neighbours whores and bitches;

But what is most surprising yet—

Your Al—— shall ALL be WITCHES.”

Rough roll’d the roaring river’s stream,

And rapid ran the rain,

When Robert Rutter dreamt a dream,

Which rack’d his heart with pain:

He dreamt there was a raging bear

Rush’d from the rugged rocks;

And strutting round with horrid stare,

Breath’d terror to the Brocks [12].

But Robert Rutter drew his sword,

And rushing forward right,

The horrid creature’s thrapple gor’d,

And barr’d his rueful spite:

Then stretching forth his brawny arm,

To drag him to the stream,

He grappled grizzle, rough and warm,

Which rouz’d him from his dream.

Attend to my summons, ye British Electors,

’Tis freedom announces your instant support,

No longer your confidence place in Protectors,

Who pillage your Rights, and of Laws make a sport;

Britannia demands your hearts and your hands,

Away to assist her, the cause is divine.

Come, see

Freedom and Liberty

Nobly exerting the Sons of the Tyne.

’Twas Liberty gave us our Commerce and Treasure,

She taught us to cultivate Science and Mirth,

To patronize Learning and true social pleasure,

To lighten the heart, and give Jollity birth,

Come, come Britons all, ’tis Liberty’s call,

Away with all speed to her sacred shrine.

Come, see

Freedom and Liberty

Nobly exerting the Sons of the Tyne.

With Freedom all Nations we hold in defiance,

The Glory of Britain o’er Earth she has hurl’d,

And Monarchs despotic, now court our alliance,

The terror of States, and the pride of the World.

Long, long on our Isle, may Liberty smile,

And bless us with Brunswick’s illustrious Line.

Come, see

Freedom and Liberty

Nobly exerting the Sons of the Tyne.

Be happy ye fair ones whom Freedom has given,

The virtue and spirit her cause to maintain,

Whose raiment outvies with the mantle of Heaven,

When Phœbus unclouded, just starts from the Main,

To guard love and beauty, we make it our duty,

To aid their felicity, ever combine;

Come, see

Daughters of Liberty,

Greeting with rapture the Sons of the Tyne.

To sing some nymph in her cot

Each bard will oft flourish his quill:

I’m glad it has fall’n to my lot

To celebrate Jesmond Mill.

When spring hither winds her career,

Our trees and our hedges to fill,

Vast oceans of verdure appear

To charm you at Jesmond Mill.

To plant every rural delight

Mere Nature has lavish’d her skill;

Here fragrant soft breezes unite

To wanton round Jesmond Mill.

When silence each evening here dwells,

The birds in their coverts all still;

No music in sweetness excels

The clacking of Jesmond Mill.

Reclin’d by the verge of the stream,

Or stretch’d on the side of the hill,

I’m never in want of a theme

While learning at Jesmond Mill.

Sure Venus some plot has design’d,

Or why is my heart never still,

Whenever it pops in my mind

To wander near Jesmond Mill?

My object, ye swains, you will guess,

If ever in love you had skill;

And now, I will frankly confess,

’Tis—Jenny of Jesmond Mill.

When cooling zephyrs wanton play,

Then oft in Pandon Dean I stray;

When sore dispers’d with grief and woe,

Then from a busy world I go;

My mind is calm, my soul serene,

Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.

The feather’d race around me sing,

They make the hills and vallies ring;

My sorrow flies, my grief is gone,

I warble with the tuneful throng;

All, all things wear a pleasing mien,

Beneath the Bank in Pandon Dean.

At distance stands an ancient tower,

Which ruin threatens every hour;

I’m struck with reverence at the sight,

I pause and gaze with fond delight;

The antique walls do join the scene,

And makes more lovely Pandon Dean.

Above me stand the towering trees,

While here I feel the gentle breeze;

The water flows by chance around,

And green enamels all the ground:

Which gives new splendour to the scene,

And adds a grace to Pandon Dean.

But when I mount the rising hill,

And there survey the purling rill,

My eye delighted—but I mourn,

To think of winter’s quick return;

With withering winds and frost so keen,

I sighing leave the Pandon Dean.

O spare for once a female pen,

And lash licentious wicked men;

Your conscious cheek need never glow,

If you your talents thus bestow:

Scarce fifteen summers have I seen,

Yet dare to sing of Pandon Dean.

Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,

Extol each nymph so fair,

Be mine my Nanny’s worth to show—

Her captivating air.

What swain can gaze without delight

On beauty there so fine?

The Graces all their charms unite

In Nanny of the Tyne.

Far from the noise of giddy courts

The lovely charmer dwells;

Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,

In virtue she excells.

With modesty, good nature join’d,

To form the nymph divine;

And truth, with innocence combin’d,

In Nanny of the Tyne.

Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet

Glide gently past her cot;

’Tis peace and virtue’s calm retreat,—

Ye great ones envied not.

And you, ye fair, whom folly leads

Through all her paths supine,

Tho’ drest in pleasure’s garb, exceeds

Not Nanny of the Tyne.

Can art to nature e’er compare,

Or win us to believe

But that the frippery of the fair

Were made but to deceive.

Strip from the belle the dress so gay,

Which fashion calls divine,

Will she such loveliness display

As Nanny of the Tyne?

Oh! where, and oh where does your bonny lassie dwell?

She lives in canny Gateshead, at the sign of the Blue Bell:

And it’s oh! in my heart, but I love my lassie well.

And what’s best compar’d to the mind of your true love?

The meekness of a lamb, and th’ innocence of the dove;

These are the true emblems of the mind of her I love.

In what, and in what does your bonny lass excell?

She’s modest as the daisy, sweet as the heather-bell;

And it’s oh! in my heart, I love my lassie well.

And what wad ye dee to please the maid you love?

I’d be a saikless wanderer, and through the wide world rov

Till death clos’d my eyes—to please the maid I love.

Should the French in Newcastle but dare to appear,

At each sign they would meet with indifferent cheer;

From the Goat, and the Hawk, from the Bell, and the Waggon,

And Dog they would skip, as St George made the Dragon.

The Billet, the Highlander, Cross Keys, and Sun,

The Eagle, and Ships too, would shew ’em some fun;

The Three Kings and Unicorn, Bull’s Head, and Horse,

Would prove that the farther they went they’d fare worse.

At the Black House, a strong-Arm would lay ev’ry man on,

And they’d quickly go off, if they got in the Cannon;

The Nelson and Turk’s Head their fears would increase,

And they’d run from the Swan like a parcel of geese.

At the York, and the Cumberland, Cornwallis too,

With our fighting Cocks, sure they’d find plenty to do;

The Nag’s Head, and Lions, would cut such an evil,

And the Angel would drive the whole crew to the devil.

At the World, and the Fountain, the Bridge, Crown and Thistle,

The Bee-Hive and Tuns, for a drop they might whistle;

With our Prince, or our Crown, should they dare interpose,

They’d prick their French fingers well under the Rose.

At the Half-Moon, the Wheat-Sheaf, and Old Barley-Mow,

A sup’s to be got,—if they could but tell how;

If they call’d at the Bull and the Tyger, to ravage,

As well as the Black Boy, they’d find ’em quite savage.

At the Ark, and the Anchor, Pack Horse, and Blue Posts,

And the Newmarket Inn, they would find but rough hosts;

The Old Star and Garter, Cock, Anchor, and more,

Would prove like the Grapes, all most cursedly sour.

The Lion and Lamb, Plough, and Old Robin Hood,

With the Crane House, would check these delighters in blood;

From the Butcher’s Arms quick they’d be running away,

And we all know that Shakespear would shew ’em some play.

At the White Hart, Three Bull’s Heads, the Old Dog and Duck,

If they did not get thrash’d they’d escape by good luck;

At the Bird in the Bush, Metter’s Arms, Peacock, they’d fast,

And our King’s and Queen’s Heads we’ll defend till the last.

May the sign of the King ever meet with respect,

And our great Constitution each Britain protect;

And may he who would humble our old British Crown,

Be hung on a Sign-post till I take him down.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

SWALWELL HOPPING.

THE SANDGATE GIRL’s LAMENTATION.

A curious Description of the City of Sandgate,
Wrote some Years ago.

THE CROW’S NEST,

SONS OF THE TYNE.—1805.

JESMOND MILL.

PANDON DEAN.

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

THE BLUE BELL OF GATESHEAD.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

THE NEWCASTLE BELLMAN.

THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.

SWALWELL HOPPING.

THE SANDGATE GIRL’s LAMENTATION.

A curious Description of the City of Sandgate, Wrote some Years ago.

THE CROW’S NEST,

SONS OF THE TYNE.—1805.

JESMOND MILL.

PANDON DEAN.

NANNY OF THE TYNE.

THE BLUE BELL OF GATESHEAD.

THE NEWCASTLE SIGNS.

THE NEWCASTLE BELLMAN.

A curious Description of the City of Sandgate,
Wrote some Years ago.