Talk no more of brave Nelson, or gallant Sir Sidney,
’Tis granted they’re Tars of a true British kidney;
And people are curious, such heroes to see,
But neither, are half so much follow’d as Me;
O when, ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Carts, Barrows, are stopt at the sound;
Each news-loving Porter, straight makes a fill pause,
And wonder-struck, shews the full stretch of his Jaws,
When sonorous I publish all round.——

FIRST CALL.

LOST! on Saturday Evening last, between Love Lane and the Long Stairs; a Tarrier Dog, entirely White, with two Brown Ears and a Black Spot upon his Tail, and answers to the Name of Shak’em; the Dog was last seen at the Entrance of the Close: and has got an ugly Trick of shaking his Right Ear and Tail as he walks;—is considered to be rather deaf, as he does not always answer to the first call——Whosoever will bring him to me shall be handsomely rewarded: and any detaining him after this Notice, will be prosecuted according to Law.——

With Orators sir, e’en senate to grace,
What town’s better stock’d, pray, than this canny place,
Ah! would you, the flow’r of those Orators see?
Ecce Homo’s the word,—you behold him in Me!
O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Shoe-makers with joy catch the sound;
And truly like so many Larks they are found:
Each swiftly descends from his garret on high;
When sonorous I publish all round.

SECOND CALL.

STOLEN or Strayed, from a field in Pandon Dean, three beautiful smoke colour’d Sheep, marked T.G. justly esteemed the most picturesque Ornaments of that celebrated Vale.——The Admirers of rural Scenery hereby offer a handsome Reward to whoever will bring them back to the Dean, if strayed, or give such information as may convict the Mutton-loving Rogues, who have stolen them.

The Town Marshal proclaims peace, incomp’rably well,
Few, at calling a Fair, the Sheriff’s Serjeant excell;
But in Pathos, the Critics, mem. con. do agree,
The Marshal and Serjeant must both yield to Me;
O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Barbers prick up their ears at the sound;
And heedless how half-shaven customers swear,
Come eagerly running my budget to hear,
When sonorous I publish all round.

THIRD CALL.

FOUND, last Winter, near the Turk’s Head Inn, which has not since been claimed, a Lady’s Hat and Wig, supposed to have been blown off the Head of the fair Owner whilst in a state of Indescribability.——Any Lady who can prove them to be her Property, may have them again, free of all Expence; but if not claimed and identified before the first of April next, they will be sold, and the Money given as a Donation to the Fever Hospital.

The Watchmen, ’tis granted, correctly and clever,
Of the hour informs us, and state of the weather;
But doubly delightful, their calling would be,
Were they all wise enough to take lessons from Me;
O when ding dong, ding dong, my Bell goes,
Each Taylor leaps up at the sound;
Off, to hear me, like roe bucks, they scampering set,
So delighted, I’m told, that they cabbage forget,
When sonorous I publish all round.

FOURTH CALL.

To be sold by Auction, J.M. Auctioneer, a large and choice Collection of Materials for Sleeping,—consisting of a Quantity of old News; erroneous and clumsy Statements of recent events; heavy Critiques on Theatrical Performers and Plays not performed; flat Pieces of uninteresting Biography; drowsy original Letters; dull Extracts from a northern Caput Mortuum of Insipidity; a Number of Puns, Jests, and old Anecdotes, warranted free from Attic Salt, chigramatic Point, or any other Ingredient capable of rousing Attention or exciting Risibility; also, a Quantity of pure Tyne Mercury, which possesses the peculiar Property of never rising in the Barometer of public Estimation, higher than the Point Ennui.—The Sale to begin every Monday Evening at Eight o’Clock, and continue till all be sold.

I’m resolv’d—may I hope you’ll approve of the measure?—
A short course of Lectures to give, when I’ve leisure;
In order to perfect these Orators’ graces,
Who cry Dying Speeches and Lists of the Races:
But, hark! ding dong, the Prompter’s Bell goes,
I’m electrified by the sound;
Mr Lindoe,[13] your summons I haste to obey,
Yet Gratitude bids me one moment delay—
Just to thank my kind Patrons all round.

[13] The then Prompter at the Theatre.

OXYGEN GAS.

By John Shield, of Newcastle, and sung at the Newcastle Theatre Royal.

On Rhenish, Medeira, Port, Claret, and Sherry,
Your fulsome eulogiums, bon-vivants, pray spare;
’Tis granted, when sad, wine can render us merry,
And lighten our bosoms of sorrow and care;
But what vintage can fire us,
Enrapture, inspire us,
As Oxygen? what so delicious to quaff?
It is so animating,
And so titillating,
E’en grey-beards turn frisky, dance, caper, and laugh,
For what can so fire us, &c.
O wond’rous indeed is this bev’rage ethereal!
The mortal who quaffs it, altho’ a mere clod,
Is straightway transformed to a being ærial,
And moves on earth’s surface in fancy a God.
In a bumper is given
A foretaste of Heaven,
All earthly vexation straight cease to annoy,
Whilst laughing and crying,
And efforts at flying,
Bespeak the soul tost in a tempest of joy.
For what can so fire us, &c.
Haste, haste to partake on’t, ye men of grave faces,
Ye Quakers, and Methodist parsons likewise;
What tho’ ye seem lost to the flexible graces,
And dormant the risible faculty lies;
One quaff of the vapour
Will cause you to caper,
And swiftly relax your stiff solemniz’d jaws;
You’ll acknowledge the change too,
As pleasing as strange too,
And make the air ring with loud ha! ha! ha! ha’s!
For what can so fire us, &c.
Let gin, rum, and brandy grow dearer and dearer,
Distillers stop working—no toper will mourn;
Of Gas we can make a delectable cheerer,
Which, nor reddens our noses, nor livers will burn;
Unbeholden to whisky
We’ll drink and get frisky,
Nor fear that to-morrow our temples may ache;
Neither stomach commotions,
Nor camomile potions,
Shall evermore cause us with terror to quake;
For what can so fire us, &c.
Let the miser’s deep coffers be fill’d to his mind now,
Let the man of ambition with honours abound,
Give the lover his mistress, complying and kind too,
And with laurel let Poets and Heroes be crown’d.
Let all be blest round me,
No envy shall wound me,
Contented and cheerful thro’ life will I pass,
If fortune befriends me,
And constantly sends me
A quantum sufficit of Oxygen Gas.
For what can so fire us, &c.

THE BARDS OF THE TYNE.

Published in the Tyne Mercury Newspaper, under the Signature of C.P. (Charles Purvis.)

Tune—Newcastle Beer.

Ye sons of Parnassus, whose brains are inspir’d
With envy or madness, dame dullness, or wine,
Who wish to be flatter’d, or prais’d, or admir’d,
Leave thinking, and fly to the banks of the Tyne:
No wit is requir’d
To make you admir’d,
Let doggrel run limping thro’ each crippled line;
No humour degrades,
Nor genius pervades
The verses sublime of our Bards of the Tyne.
No soft flowing numbers must ravish the senses,
Whose soothing meanders a ditty would stain
A muse with such drowsy materials dispenses,
Whilst Grub-street’s quintessence will squeese from the brain:
How sweetly the strains
Must thrill thro’ the veins,
When Sandgate and Bedlam together combine;
Or “Oxygen Gas,”
From the pipe of an ass,
Rarifies the dence brains of our Bards of the Tyne.
With rhymers our Theatre’s always surrounded,
Whose Bellman taught lays set the house in a roar:
Common sense stands aghast, thunder-struck and confounded,
While Dullness brays out from its Gall’ry, Encore!
Then, big with applause,
Crack’s Scotch ell of jaws[14]
Sets forth a hoarse bawling, so purely divine,
That hydras or bears
Might prick up their ears,
And howl out in concert with Bards of the Tyne.

[14] Alluding to the character of Crack, in the farce of the Turnpike Gate, where Mr Noble performed with true spirit.

AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING.

By James Stawpert.

Who’s he that with great Mercury strides,
In imitation’s line,
And, without reason, thus derides
The poets of the Tyne?
Who, not content with critic’s skill,
That lets no error pass;
In passion’s cup he dips his quill,
And calls his brother—ass.
I tell thee, Satirist, forbear,
For asses have a trick,
And, if provok’d, ’tis very rare
They’re not inclin’d to kick.
Now should great Fate ordain it so,
That this poor docile beast,
Whom thou hast term’d so very low,
E’en lowest of the least:
I say, should ancient Baalam’s steed,
(For so thou nam’st the man)
Tell thee in time to take good heed,
Thy manners rough to scan;
Or if, like thee, he write with ire,
And ask in angry strains,
What set thy sleepy muse on fire,
Or rous’d thy muddy brains?
Nay further, should he analize
The words “Oxygen Gas,”
He might make thee a monst’rous size,
E’en, larger than an ass!
The thought will no great time afford,
Nor needs much Orthodox,
For, take four letters from the word,
It makes thee out an OX.
I think the appellation suits,
Yet this believe from me,
Had thou not been so fond of brutes,
I’d not made one of thee.
Adieu then, ancient Egypt’s god,
Or shall I call thee bull?
When next thou handles Satyr’s rod,
Pray write thy name in full.
For two initials, such as thine,
Might make dame dullness pause,
And simple poets of the Tyne,
Find terms in Nature’s laws.
By adding letters to the two
Which thou hast late put down;
No, faith, I have not time just now,
And Modesty might frown.

THE RAREE SHOW MAN.

An Election Song.—(20th September, 1780.)

The following Verses, at an Election Song, being rather contrary to the general Arrangement of this Work, but possessing Novelty, must plead for its Insertion.

Allons, sweet childs, of smooth complexion,
Come see de grande, de rare election,
Me show de hole in much perfection.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
No congstable on me doth frownee,
In dis Newcastel famous townee,
Vare some veare breaches, some de gounee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
But den before dat I do callee,
You give me sixpence, price is smallee;
And den I’ll nothing ask at allee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
In fronte, you see de agents coming,
Vast great, much consequence assuming,
Far, farther far, than is becoming.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
See dere de vulgar scum begin it,
Den next de Sylock bankiers pin it;
Ah dere!—de devil’s selfe is in it.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
O wonderful! how dey do tumble,
Just like de Jack of cards dey tumble,
De kings, with knaves and duces humble.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Dare de parson, lawyer, scrambles,
Dare physic doctors in de shambles,
Vere some do make de long preambles!
Doodle, doodle, doo.
See all de shop-folks gaping, staring,
Few understanding, fewer caring,
Vether perjury be swearing!
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Oh bless us! how you slaves are roaring,
Deir cunning patrons stagger snoring,
Inclined pocket trusting more in.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Next you do see, from street of tripee,
De Goatside boys, for huzza ripee;
Vith all de lads dat make de pipee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
And next you do behold, so stirring,
Like horned cattle in de murrain,
Dose jolly blades dat speak so burring.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Dese be good freemen, as dey’re called;
’Tis not for nothing dey have bauled;
Huzza! till to de poll dey’re hauled!
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Stand fast—have care—see from de denny,
Come, elbow forth, de gentlemeny,
Vith all de brains—if dey have any.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Now den, now den, de bright candidates,
Up top hustings, hope and fear deir fates:
Whilst all de congstables surround de gates.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Ay now de mountain be in labour;
Blo, blo de fifee, sound de tabre;
Flash, flash de brade sword and de sabre.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
For toute le Monde vill see, no doubtee,
Dat someting, noting, vill come outee,
To make de people glore aboutee.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
If dat brave Monsieur Bowes[15] be chosen,
De legs vill dance by score, by dozen,
And all de grande vill call him couzen.
Doodle, doodle, doo.
Den come again, sweet childs, to-morrow,
Me show you ten hundred joy—no sorrow;
But bring de sixpence, if you borrow.
Doodle, doodle, doo.

[15] Andrew Robinson Bowes, who gained his election, (1780) though unsuccessful in the contest on the death of Sir Walter Blackett in 1777. This person came to Newcastle as ensign in the 30th regiment of foot, quartered in that town; shortly after he married the only daughter of William Newton, Esq. a lady of fortune; after her death he married (1777) the Countess of Strathmore, from whom he was divorced for cruelty, in 1785. He served the office of Sheriff of Northumberland, 1780; and died in the King’s Bench, 16th January, 1810.

BARBER’s NEWS:
OR,
Shields in an Uproar!!!

A New Song.

Tune—“O the golden Days of good Queen Bess.”

Great was the consternation, amazement, and dismay, Sir,
Which, both in North and South Shields, prevail’d the other day, Sir;
Quite panic-struck the natives were, when told by the barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
“Have you heard the news Sir?” What news, pray master barber?
“Oh a terrible sea monster has got into the harbour!”
Now each honest man in Shields—I mean both North and South, Sir,
Delighting in occasions to expand their eyes and mouth, Sir:
And fond of seeing marv’lous sights, ne’er stay’d to get his beard off;
But ran to view the monster, its arrival, when he heard of.
Oh! who could think of shaving when inform’d by the barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
Each wife pursu’d her husband, and every child its mother,
Lads and lasses helter skelter, scamper’d after one another;
Shopkeepers and mechanics too, forsook their daily labours,
And ran to gape and stare among their gaping staring neighbours.
All crowded to the river side, when told by the barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
It happens very frequently that barber’s news is fiction, Sir,
But the wond’rous news this morning was truth no contradiction, Sir;
A something sure enough was there among the billows flouncing,
Now sinking in the deep profound, now on th’ surface bouncing.
True as Gazette or Gospel were the tidings of the barber,
That a terrible Sea Monster had got into the harbour.
Some thought it was a Shark, Sir, a Porpus some conceived it;
Some said it was a Grampus, and some a Whale believ’d it;
Some swore it was a Sea Horse, then own’d themselves mistaken,
For, now they’d got a nearer view—’twas certainly a Kraken.
Each sported his opinion, from the parson to the barber,
Of the terrible Sea Monster they had got in the harbour.
“Belay, belay,” a sailor cried, “what that, this thing, a Kraken!
’Tis no more like one, split my jib, than it is a flitch of bacon!
I’ve often seen a hundred such, all sporting in the Nile, Sir,
And you may trust a sailor’s word, it is a Crocodile, Sir.”
Each strait to Jack knocks under, from the parson to the barber,
And all agreed a Crocodile had got into the harbour.
Yet greatly Jack’s discovery his auditors did shock, Sir,
For they dreaded that the Salmon would be eat up by the Croc. Sir:
When presently the Crocodile, their consternation crowning,
Raised its head above the waves, and cried, “Help! O Lord, I’m drowning!”
Heavens! how their hair, Sir, stood on end, from the parson to the barber;
To find a Speaking Crocodile had got into the harbour.
This dreadful exclamation appall’d both young and old, Sir,
In the very stoutest hearts, indeed, it made the blood run cold, Sir;
Ev’n Jack, the hero of the Nile, it caus’d to quake and tremble,
Until an old wife, sighing, cried “Alas! ’tis Stephen K——.”
Heav’ns! however all astonish’d, from the parson to the barber,
To find that Stephen K—— was the monster in the harbour.
Strait crocodilish fears gave place to manly gen’rous strife, Sir,
Most willingly each lent a hand to save poor Stephen’s life, Sir;
They drag’d him gasping to the shore, impatient for his history,
For how he came in that sad plight, to them was quite a mystery.
Tears glisten’d, Sir, in every eye, from the parson to the barber,
When, swoln to thrice his natural size, they drag’d him from the harbour.
Now having roll’d and rubb’d him well an hour upon the beach, Sir,
He got upon his legs again, and made a serious speech, Sir;
Quoth he, “An ancient proverb says, and true it will be found, Sirs,
Those born to prove an airy doom, will surely never be drown’d, Sirs.
For fate, Sirs, has us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber;
Or surely I had breathed my last this morning in the harbour.
Resolv’d to cross the River, Sirs, a Sculler did I get into,
May Jonah’s ill-luck be mine, another when I step into!
Just when we’d reach’d the deepest part, O horror! there it founders,
And down went poor Pillgarlick amongst the Crabs and Flounders!
But fate, that keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber,
Ordain’d I should not breathe my last, this morning in the harbour.
I’ve broke down many a stage coach, and many a chaise and gig, Sirs,
Once, in passing through a trap-hole, I found myself too big, Sirs,
I’ve been circumstanc’d most oddly, whilst contesting hard a race, Sirs,
But ne’er was half so frighten’d, as amongst the Crabs and Plaise, Sirs.
O fate, Sirs, keeps us all in tow, from the monarch to the barber,
Or certainly I’d breath’d my last, this morning in the harbour.
My friends, for your exertions, my heart o’erflows with gratitude,
O may it prove the last time, you find me in that latitude;
God knows with what mischances dire, the future may abound, Sirs,
But I hope and trust I’m one of those, not fated to be drown’d, Sirs.”
Thus ended his oration, Sir, I had it from the barber;
And dripping, like some River God, he slowly left the harbour.
Ye men of North and South Shields too, God send ye all prosperity,
May your commerce ever flourish, your stately ships still crowd the sea;
Unrivall’d in the Coal Trade, till doomsday may you stand, Sirs,
And every hour, fresh wonders, your eyes and mouths expand, Sirs.
And long may Stephen K—— live, and never may the barber
Mistake him for a monster more, deep floundering in the harbour.

SONG,

On the Flight of the young Crows, from Newcastle Exchange; with their Address to the Corporation.

The young brood fairly fledg’d, we may fairly suppose,
Half the world must have heard of our Newcastle CROWS?
How their daddy, bold bird! from a rabble got free,
And was fully determin’d a freeman to be!
On the vane of the steeple, upon the Exchange,
Completed his nest, which beholders thought strange:
His bright jetty consort accomplish’d her part,
Nor foes, nor foul weather could alter her heart.
Their younglings, quite able to take distant flight,
Were told, by their parents, “Good manners are right.”
To their freedom admitted—they could do no less,
Than approach their kind patrons, with humble ADDRESS;
To thank them politely, without wanton joke,
For, so learned in swallow, they must learn to croak.—
In a trice——as if Æsop himself had inspir’d,
They began their address, whilst their hearers admir’d.
“Ye wise men, and good men, of Newcastle guild,
Who suffer’d our father and mother to build——
High, upon the high pinnacle of your Exchange,
And here see their offspring just ready to range;
To range with sweet freedom, o’er land, and o’er seas,
To eat and to drink, and to croak as we please——
Accept our plain thanks, while the reasons we clear,
Why some Merlin, or Shipton, hath sure sent us here.
“One thousand seven hundred, eighty and three,
For this town, a remarkable æra will be!
All folks will think right, from grave age to smart youth,
Nor priests, nor disciples, e’er wander from TRUTH;
Your rulers be loyal to great George the third,
Each rich man prove honest, and just to his word:
No fair-trading merchant will smuggle, or cheat,
No foul gorging glutton waste poor people’s meat.
“Your fine Sandhill maidens be merry and wise,
From their crying of lemons, to selling of pies;
Your green, and rare fish-women, civil enough,
Your milliners spruce, not so apt to take huff.
Up the Side, you’ll hear compliments, happy and free,
Where hot puddings, and haggishes, plenty shall be:
The silver-smiths, coopers, and tinmen will join
To sound the reforms now produc’d on the Tyne.
“Your Sandgate smart girls, the gay world will surprise,
Grown cleanly, and decent, and modest, and wise;
The keelmen, in manners, become quite polite,
No cursing at morn, nor much drunk over night!
Refining in language, improving in notes,
Letter R run far smoother, and glib through their throats:
Their Andrews, these sirnames, bear better degrees,
Ralphs, Richardsons, Rogersons, uttered with ease.
“No tailor will cabbage, no draper will pinch,
No shoemaker squeeze a full nail from an inch;
No baker, or flourman, be short of his weight,
No forestaller breed low designs in his pate;
No butcher, on Bank, keep prices too high,
No hatter, no baker, deceive with a lie!——
But what will stand foremost in public parade,
Newcastle shall furnish a cheaper COAL TRADE!
“In politics, surely, such changes will be,
The people and magistrates mutual agree;
No bribery, no menace, no little whit self,
No pride overbearing, or impudent wealth;
But each voter prove honest to old England’s laws,
Still prudently guarding fair liberty’s cause!
And so, brother freemen, God bless ye, adieu!
We fly to sage Franklin, and Washington now.”

A RARE CURIOSITY:
OR,
CROW’S NEST IN GATESHEAD.
A NEW SONG.

As Neddy and Betty were walking along,
Each cheerfully joining in dialogue song;
I met them, delighted on Gateshead green hill,
While Betty’s sweet voice charm’d all lads round each mill.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
Indeed, honest Neddy! the news is quite true,
Th’ Sandhill, no longer crow nests we can view;
The downfalling Steeple, and coming down Change,
Oblig’d feather’d builders at distance to range.
Derry down, &c.
NEDDY.
Does not my fair Betty know perfectly well,
No birds in prognostics black crows can excell?
No sooner their nests on the Sandhill were shewn,
Than public improvements came rapidly on.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
O yes I remember, from Close when they flew,
What crowds of spectators their nests came to view;
When pitched so nicely on top of the vane,
As signals, where Justice and Commerce did reign.
Derry down, &c.
NEDDY.
It is very true, my dear charmer, indeed,
Spectators beheld vast improvements succeed;
A beautiful Square, named Charlotte the Queen,
New streets, and Assembly Rooms elegant seen.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
O yes, and a Theatre, royal and fine,
Erected, no doubt, for some noble design;
To shew thoughtless mortals of ev’ry degree,
How defaulting they are, how good they should be.
Derry down, &c.
NEDDY.
From thence, if reflection keeps soberly on,
We’ve the Free Mason Lodge, in the style of St John;[16]
Where true wit and humour with charity meet,
And souls are united in union complete.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
I’m calling to mind, what a gipsy once told,
Who came in the crowd the crow’s nest to behold;
“These crows are wise creatures—Trade here will improve,
As sure as the winds can that weather-cock move!”
Derry down, &c.
NEDDY.
Then Gateshead is lucky, I vow and declare,
Behold, my dear Betty! where now the crows are;
Near Battle Bank foot, their snug nests you may find,
Upon those new chimnies, set free to the wind.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
O wonderful! Neddy, I see them so plain,
Quite opposite now to their former gilt vane;
The Stamp Office chosen, they mean to proceed,
The good folk of Gateshead are lucky indeed.
Derry down, &c.
NEDDY.
Then let me, dear Betty, meet better luck still,
Come, give me thy heart and thy hand with good will;
You know I am honest, my vows are sincere,
From all the deceits of vile rascals quite clear.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
So many false villains but court to deceive,
We virgins in prudence should slowly believe;
If they can but the punishing laws once escape,
They fear not the devil, his torments, or shape.
Derry down, &c.
NEDDY.
May all worthy millers grind such rascals down,
Till neither their dust nor their ashes are known;
Here’s my hand, dearest Bett! for life let us join,
Consent—and to morrow my all shall be thine.
Derry down, &c.
BETTY.
Dear Ned! I believe, and to-morrow shall see,
How blessing and blest honest lovers can be;
The crow’s nest in Gateshead full witness may prove,
That none but vile fools are deceitful in love.
Derry down, down, hey derry down.

[16] St John’s Lodge, No. 184, Free Masons’ Hall, Low Friar Street, Newcastle, dedicated October 18th, 1777, was some years after disused and converted into the Dispensary.

THE FRENCH INVASION.

Published May 10th, 1794.

Some wags, taking advantage of the alarm of invasion in March, 1794, sent two letters, with the counterfeit signatures of two magistrates in Northumberland, to the Mayor of Newcastle, stating, that a party of French had landed on the coast, near Bambrough; this occasioned some bustle in Newcastle; 270l. reward was afterward offered in vain for the discovery of the writers.

“Now fill a bumper to the brim,
“And drink to Gotham’s mayor;
“And when again he hears such news,
“May Fa——berg be there.”
Thus lately in a loyal song,
Sung some right loyal bard;
And righteous too, no doubt was he,
For lo! his prayer was heard.
News, direful news from Bambro’ came,
The French were landed there;
A letter, written with all speed,
Was sent to Gotham’s mayor.
“The crews of three French ships of war,
Have landed in our coast,
Send for Lord F——berg,” quoth he,
“Or we shall all be lost.
“Our bullocks they have ta’en away,
Our cows and sheep besides.”
“O woe betide them,” says our mayor,
“They’ll raise the price of HIDES.”
“Fear not, fear not,” says F——berg,
Who now before him stood,
“To guard you I will spend my last,
Last drop of noble blood!”
On this our mayor began to hold
Erect his drooping head;
“I will not,” quoth Lord F——berg,
“This night lay down my head.
“To guard-house I will hie with speed,
And watch ’till morn appear;
Each Gothamite may soundly sleep,
No cause have they to fear.”
“Meantime” says Gotham’s mayor, “I will
In haste, a letter write
To George our king, some ships to send,
To intercept their flight.”
To George our king the tidings came,
At London where he lay;
“What! cattle, cattle, sheep indeed!—
To Windsor haste away;
“Lock up my pretty little sheep,
My pigs and geese likewise;
No bloody Frenchman shall destroy
What I so dearly prize.
“Then run tell Billy Pitt to come,
And bring his brother here;
But first call Tom the butler up,
To get me some small beer.
“How happens Chat—m, that no ships
You have sent to the North?
Not one, I’m told, is to be seen
From Thames unto the Forth.”
“So please you,” bowing low, says John,
“I would have sent a few,
But that I thought you’d want them here
Against the next REVIEW.”
“That’s right, that’s right,” reply’d our king,
“One ship I cannot spare:
And if the French do get their sheep,
Why—let them take more care.
“Example let them take by me,
And they’ll receive no harm;
Shut them all up as I have done,
Upon my Windsor farm.”
So spake our gracious lord,
And so I end my song;
May heaven from rots preserve his sheep,
And may his life be long!

BLYTH CAMPS: Or, the Girl I left behind Me.

In 1795, near Blyth there was an encampment, the troops of which, consisting of 13 regiments of horse and foot, were reviewed on the 28th of August, that year, by the Duke of York, in the presence of upwards of 60,000 spectators.