I’m lonesome since I left BLYTH camps,
And o’er the moor that’s sedgy;
With heavy thoughts my mind is fill’d,
Since I parted with my Betsy:
Whene’er I turn to view the place,
The tears fall down and blind me;
When I think on the charming grace
Of her I left behind me.
The hours I remember well,
When first from her they mov’d me;
The burning flames my heart doth tell,
Since first she own’d she lov’d me:
In search of some one fair and gay,
Several doth remind me;
I know my darling loves me well,
Tho’ I left her behind me.
The bees shall cease to make a store,
The dove become a ranger:
The falling waters cease to roar,
Before I’ll ever change her.
Each mutual promise faithful made,
By her whom tears remind me;
I bless the hours I pass’d away
With her I left behind me.
My mind her image will retain,
Whether asleep or waking;
I hope to see my love again,
For her my heart is breaking.
If e’er I chance to go that way,
And she has not resign’d me;
I’ll reconcile my mind and stay
With her I left behind me.

BEAUMONT’s LIGHT HORSE.

We march’d from the camps with our hearts full of woe,
On board of the transports we forc’d were to go;
No drums they did beat, nor no trumpets did sound,
In silence and sadness we trudg’d o’er the ground.
No more on our horses we’ll prance o’er the plain,
For they drive us away like sheep to be slain;
Our friends and acquaintance we leave on the shore,
And we’ll never be seen in Old England more.
When arm’d, on our horses away we did ride,
All ran to see Beaumont’s Light Horsemen parade;
But all these fine times are with us now all o’er,
For we shall return to Old England no more.
We listed for horsemen, our country to save,
They told us fine stories of Beaumont the brave;
But now he has sold us to add to his store,
And transported from England to come back no more.
We mounted our horses and rode through the town,
We hid us in holes, and our guns we laid down;
Now see the Newcastle folks drive away fears,
And now see the brav’ry of their Volunteers.
God save our noble king, and long may he reign,
And send him brave soldiers, his rights to maintain;
But do not deceive them, keep them on your shore,
That they may defend you ’till time is no more.
Farewell to all camps, and farewell to all towns,
We go off all footmen, no more like dragoons;
For hard is our fate, and it grieves us full sore,
Then farewell, dear England, we’ll see thee no more.
Farewell to our wives, and our sweethearts likewise;
Tho’ we’re driven to battle yet we’ll bullets despise;
And if its our fortune to return once again,
We’ll bring store of riches, and bid adieu to the main.

A Song in Praise of the
KEELMEN VOLUNTEERS. On board the Lapwing Frigate.

Tune—White Cockade.

Come fill a bumper to the brim,
And drink success to George our king;
Of France and Spain let’s not be fear’d,
Since our Keel Lads have volunteer’d
To meet the proud and daring foe,
And let the haughty Frenchmen know,
That our Keel Lads are brave and free,
And Neptune’s favourites will be.
Zephyr, blow your gentle gales,
And fill our Keel Lads’ shiv’ring sails,
And waft them o’er the raging sea;
For our defenders they will be:
Lo! Duncan of the Texel boasts,
Nelson them in the Nile did toast;
The British flag they’re sure to sway,
And Frenchmen take to Norway.
With spirits heroic and sublime,
Our lads are brought up on the Tyne;
They will our foes with sorrow fill,
When once they sail from Newcastle:
Where bullets fly and cannons roar,
They’ll sweep the seas from shore to shore;
And all the world their wonders tell:
Huzza, Keel Lads of Newcastle!

THE SONS OF THE TYNE:
OR,
British Volunteers.

Tune—Hearts of Oak.

Come cheer up your hearts, my brave sons of the Tyne,
And boldly come forward to enter the line;
Your country it calls you, defend now her right,
Against that invader, who dares you to fight.
Sons of Tyne all advance,
For to humble proud France;
And teach Bonaparte,
Tho’ ever so hearty,
Not t’ insult British valour upon her own shore.
The proud sons of Spain, too, like fools did attempt,
With a large Armada to make a descent;
But lord Howard convinc’d them, long ere they came near,
That they were not to take the wrong sow by the ear!
Sons of Tyne, &c.
There was bold Sidney Smith, on the Palestine shore,
Made the army invincible lie all in gore;
When caught in his Mouse Trap[17] at Acre de John,
Bonaparte (then Musselman) made a sad moan.
Sons of Tyne, &c.
The brave Abercromby shed his last drop of blood,
At Alexandria, for his country’s good:
And shall Corsican Tyranny ever come near
To Britannia’s shores?—No! we’ll all volunteer.
Sons of Tyne, &c.
He threats to invade us, and plunder us too,
And make us a province! but that will not do.
If he come, we will shew him a handful of men,
Who will take him in Trap, like Sir Sidney again.
Sons of Tyne, &c.
Bonaparte’s bravadoes we’ll treat with disdain,
Like the heroes of Britain, who rule on the main;
We will boldly stand forward in Britannia’s cause,
To protect her religion, her liberty and laws.
Sons of Tyne, &c.

[17] The seamen call the breach made in the walls at St John de Acre, while Bonaparte was in Egypt, the Commodore’s Mouse Trap.

MARY OF THE TYNE.

What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal
The pain or rapture which we feel;
’Tis bliss while either we impart
Unto a sympathetic heart,
Just like to that sweet heart of thine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne.
I lose, when near thee, all my care,
When from thee, I am all despair;
My bosom heaves with anxious pain,
Until I meet with thee again,
What are these adverse pangs of mine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
Say, is it from thy beauteous face,
Or is it from thy nat’ral grace,
Or is it thy angelic mind,
Or is it ev’ry one combin’d,
Making one sweet form divine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
Should it be love, thou’dst sure forgive?
That is the food on which I live;
But if thou should’st that bliss deny,
Then must thy faithful lover die;
Or linger out his life supine,
For lovely Mary of the Tyne!

NEWCASTLE FAIR—October, 1811.

The Pitman a drinking of Jacky. (English Gin. This liquor has various names in different parts of the country. At a village in the western part of Northumberland, the editor heard it called Blue Dick.)

By J.S.

Tune—Drops of Brandy.

Ha’ ye been at Newcastle fair,
And did ye see ouse o’ great Sandy?
Lord bliss us! what wark there was there;
And the folks were drinking of brandy.
Brandy, a shilling a glass!
Aw star’d, and thought it was shamful.
Never mind, says aw, canny lass,
Give us yell, and aw’ll drink ma wameful.
Rum te idily, &c.
Says she, Canny man, the yell’s cawd;
It comes frev a man they ca’ Mackey,
And my faith it’s byeth sour an’ awd;
Ye’d best hev a drop o’ wour jacky.
Your jacky! says I, now what’s that?
I ne’er heard the neame o’ sic liquor.
English gin, canny man, that’s flat.
And then she set up a great nicker.
Rum te idily, &c.
Says I, divent laugh at poor folks,
But gang and bring some o’ yur jacky;
Aw want neane o’ yur jibes or jokes;
I’ th’ mean time aw’ll tak a bit backy.
Aw just tuke a chew o’ pig tail,
She brought in this jacky se funny:
Says she, Sir, that’s better than ale:
And held out her hand for the money.
Rum te idily, &c.
There’s three pence to pay, if you please:
Aw star’d an’ aw gap’d like a ninny:
Od smash thee, aw’ll sit at ma ease,
An’ not stir till aw’ve spent a half guinea.
Aw sat an’ aw drank till quite blind,
Then aw’ gat up to gang to the door,
But deel smash a door cou’d aw find,
An’ fell flat o’ ma fyess on the floor.
Rum te idily, &c.
There aw lay for ever se lang,
And dreamt about rivers and ditches;
When waken’d, was singing this song—
“Smash, jacky, thou’s wet a’ ma breeches.”
An’ faith! but the sang it was true,
For jacky had been se prevailing,
He’d whistled himsel’ quickly through,
An’ the chairs an’ tables were sailing.
Rum te idily, &c.
Then rising, aw went ma ways heame,
Aw knock’d at the door, an’ cry’d, Jenny;
Says she, Canny man, is’te lame,
Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny?
I’ troth, she was like for to dee,
An’ just by the way to relieve her,
The water’s been wadin through me,
An’ this jacky’s a gay deceiver.
Rum te idily, &c.
If e’er aw drink jacky again,
May the bitch of a lass, ma adviser,
Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane
As big as a pulveriser.
Rum te idily, &c.

THE NEWCASTLE BEAUTIES.

These beauties must be now of some age, as they are unknown to the editor.

Designed to be sung to the Harpsicord or Spinet, &c.

I.
Tho’ lofty bards sublimer sing,
And boldly tune their lays;
Not less renown attends the string,
Which sounds to beauty’s praise.
Ye muses then lend me your aid,
Whilst I attempt to prove,
That in Newcastle many a maid
Excells the queen of love.
II.
Ye bards, forbear your partial lays,
Ye who so lofty sing,
Nor longer only Venus praise,
But here your numbers bring.
No more shall blinded mortals pray,
Or bow before her shrine;
No more in Cyprus seek the bay,
But find it here on Tyne.
III.
First of yon throng, see Delia[18] shine,
That matchless nonpareil!
All eyes confess her form divine,
Such graces round her dwell.
Dame nature has herself outdone,
In that most beauteous fair,
And lavish’d all those charms on one,
Which thousands only share.
IV.
Next her, behold the lovely Cloe[19],
Ye gods! what killing eyes!
See how her charming ringlets flow,
Where wanton Cupid lies:
The rose, compar’d to her, shall fade,
The lily lose its white:
E’en Sol himself must own the maid,
And shine with beams less bright.
V.
Thee, lovely Cynthia[20], next we sing,
Charm’d with thy beauteous face,
More blooming than the verdent spring,
Adorn’d with ev’ry grace;
Thy comely shape and genteel air,
Our admiration raise,
Thou stands confess’d a perfect fair,
And worthy all our praise.
VI.
Thy mien, sweet Daphne[21], next we view,
And as we view, approve;
Thy blooming charms all hearts subdue,
And kindle them to love:
Those charming breasts, and sparkling eyes,
What mortal can oppose?
Still as we gaze, new beauties rise,
And still the passion grows.
VII.
Gay Sylvia[22] next appears in sight,
Surrounded by her charms,
Her handsome form which shines so bright,
Each youthful bosom warms.
Ye youths withdraw your wishful eyes,
Nor longer on her gaze;
For were your hearts as cold as ice,
Her beams would make them blaze.
VIII.
Sweet Celia[23] next demands our care,
That lovely nut-brown maid!
Behold her charming flowing hair,
In jetty locks display’d:
She fills each bosom with desire,
So graceful is her mein;
Her comely features all admire,
Where thousand loves are seen.
IX.
See Flavia[24], the young, the gay,
For graceful air renown’d,
Her mien more bright than flow’ry May,
With ev’ry beauty crown’d.
Her beauteous sister[25] next appears,
Whom wond’rous charms adorn;
The lovely doe each bosom chears,
With beauties like the morn.
X.
The next we view is Julia’s[26] face,
For comely features lov’d;
Her golden locks still add a grace,
To what all hearts approv’d.
Her friend no less inspires the lay,
The lovely Danæ[27] fair,
To whom all tongues their praises pay,
Charm’d with her shape and air.
XI.
Thee, Phœbe[28], with Ophelia[29] join’d,
We can’t too much admire,
Your blooming charms, it must be own’d,
All hearts to love inspire.
To handsome Pat[30], and lovely Stell[31],
Our praises too belong;
These, who in various charms excel,
Close up the beauteous throng.
XII.
As now ador’d you pass your bloom,
Your autumn you may live;
Let me, ye beauteous fair, presume,
This one advice to give;
Virtue pursue—or vain ye’re bright,
“In vain your eyes may roll;
’Tis true that charms do strike the sight,
But merit wins the soul.”

[18] Miss P——y T——n.

[19] Miss H——le.

[20] Miss H——y.

[21] Miss B——p.

[22] Miss H——m.

[23] Miss S——s.

[24] Miss F——tt

[25] Miss F——tt.

[26] Miss H——h.

[27] Miss J—— B——ll.

[28] Miss P—— S——t.

[29] Miss L——s.

[30] Miss A——n.

[31] Miss M——y G——n.

SONG,
On the Address of the Newcastle House of Lords, on turning out Lord North, and Mr Fox.

When Royal G——e, on new year’s day,[32]
Had told his bishops, great and small,
What our wise Crows, last March did say,
“He fear’d Britannia’s sudden fall.”
For knaves determin’d on his doom;
Two of the worst were Fox and North,
These he displac’d, and in their room
Had station’d Pitt, and men of worth.
T’ assuage the sovereign’s grief and care,
And loyal feeling to express,
Imperial London’s duteous mayor,
Approach’d the throne with an address.
Counties, and towns, and boroughs too,
Throng’d thick, and their addresses paid,
Their prince to undeceive, and shew
How twice ten years he’d been betray’d.
Newcastle’s mayor, to virtue form’d,
(Charles the upright and the good;)
Whose hands refrain’d, and nobly scorn’d
To stain with transatlantic blood.
A temperate zeal, he did confess,
Became each lover of his king;
Then all join’d him in an address;
And thousands warmly did it sign.
A band more true, (what need of words?)
And of all loyal men the flower;
I mean Ned C——g’s house of lords,
Who prais’d each minister in power.
The fancy seiz’d! each noble peer,
Pushing the tankard foaming o’er:
(O had lord Umbrage but been here,
But we shall never see him more!)
Now fairly sat the sage divan,
And silence call’d to every box.
“Let’s thank our king, aye every man,
For turning out lord North and Fox.
We must confess it’s scarce seven years,
Since we address’d our royal sire;
And beg’d he’d scorn all whiggish fears,
And we would help to blow the fire.
War’s flame did blaze both far and near,
And Europe’s powers against us join’d:
Our fleets were beat, our armies fled,
We sued for peace, and bought it dear.
It’s true the whigs, these knavish rogues
All cried, our mischiefs North began:
But what care we for barking dogs;
For North was still the greatest man.
Our empire was too wide and great,
And too unwieldy—and what not!
But North, our tailor of the state,
Clip’d it, as Umbrage would a coat.
A truth from which we scorn to swerve.
The more we lose, the more we gain;
And trade and treasures only serve,
To foster pride, and care, and pain.
But ah, how vain is human hope!
Great North with spendthrift Fox has join’d:
(For this he well deserves a rope)
All fair professions are but wind.
Come then, my lords, stand forth like men,
The good old cause keep still in view;
And tell the k——g we do condemn
Old knaves, and will support the new.”
The house then rung with loud applause,
Fists, pipes, and smoke, their joy express.
A committee resolved was
To word, and draw up the address.
Th’ expence, agreed by numerous votes,
Attending this address of thanks;
Was all to be paid out in notes,
Of Sir James Duncan’s best of banks.

[32] Alluding to the king’s reply to the b——’s address, usual on the first day of the year, expressive of a desponding prediction, truly alarming.

THE ADDRESS
OF
SIR J. DUNCAN, AND CO.

Of the Scale de Cross Bank, to the Ladies, Gentlemen, and Merchants, of Newcastle upon Tyne, and its Environs.

Sir James Duncan and Co. their kind compliments send
To the public in general, who so befriend
Their laudable endeavour, your gold to exchange,
Yet reluctantly confess, they think it most strange
Their opening a Bank, shou’d be impudent thought,
By those who are strangers to their KERECTER[33], and note,
And flatter themselves, the following reasons will prove
Their right to be Bankers, and objections remove.
The title, they presume, will command the esteem
Of those who at a distance, from hence, may have seen
Their elegant Notes; their clothes—they vow, and declare,
In London were made, as you may see by their air;
The skin on Sir James, is not so fit as his coat,
And fine Bristol beer washes his throat.
No Newcastle furniture their office degrades,
Sir James Duncan employs no such bungling, vile blades,
As the paltry workmen, in this smokey town,
Whose finery often—has made us Bankers frown.
They are not worth an hundred thousand it’s true,
But supposing they were, cou’d the public, and you
Their friends be assured they wou’d not exceed
Their capital twice, when their paper you need,
And wisely prefer it, to hard silver and gold,
Because you don’t weigh it, and it’s much sooner told.
The notes of their brethern they will not refuse,
Let other bankers less wise, do that if they chuse;
The public they’ll serve, their cash take, and bills discount,
Except at Change hours, to any amount;
And when profusion and taxes, and of America the loss,
Old England has ruin’d—firm will stand the Scale Cross.
The critics our doggrels will sneer at, we suppose,
But Strap, who’s a GENIUS, has measur’d them, and knows,
Like a shoe on a last they are fit, and convey
Our intention completely, and it’s needless to say,
Newcastle, Exchange, Tyne, or Commercial Bank,[34]
Must yield to us in writing, as well as in rank,
No knight can they boast—and we his majesty thank.

Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Jacob End.

SIR JAMES DUNCAN’s NOTES WERE AS FOLLOWS:—

Banknote

CRISPIN.

No. 89.

I Promise to pay Mr Benj. Bulk, or Bearer on Demand the Sum of Two Pence, Value received. Seale de Cross Bank, Newcastle, 24 Jany 1784. For Sir J. Duncan, Hide, Strap, Last, Awl, & Self, Jacob End.

Two Pence.

Entd Jas Back, No. 89.

N.B. Our Estates liable, and Copper taken.

[33] We have observed, at a Coffee-house, that one of our brethren pronounces this word thus.

[34] Out of these four banks, only two now remain, (1812) i.e., the Newcastle, and the Tyne.

AN ELEGY,
TO THE MEMORY OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
LORD RAVENSWORTH.

Who died, January 30th, 1784, Aged 76.

Liddell, farewell! to all true Britons dear,
We mourn in heart, and shed the friendly tear:
Yet not for thee our eyes in tears we steep,
Our grief is selfish—for ourselves we weep:
No loss by death the worthy can sustain,
We are the losers—and our loss thy gain.
The rich have lost, by thy lamented end,
The best of neighbours; and the poor a friend.
O Ravensworth! thy hospitable door
Receiv’d the wealthy, and reliev’d the poor.
Adorn’d with ev’ry virtue, ev’ry grace
Which nature e’er bestow’d on human race.
Through a long life, example bright thou shone!
By all belov’d:—Now each regrets thou’rt gone!
Thy suff’rings here were weigh’d; nor shall thy death
Be more than ceasing of thy mortal breath;
Thy Master calls, ripe for thy Master’s joy,
Where love and bliss, the upright mind employ.
Speak ye, who knew him best, what man can say,
That Liddell could the distant friend betray!
To friendship true, no scandal from his tongue;
To hurt a friend, or do his foe a wrong.
For truth he try’d, enquir’d, and careful sought,
Yet lov’d the man altho’ he diff’rent thought.
Who’s right! be left to that decisive day,
When truth’s bright beams shall shine without allay.
Ne’er sway’d by notions, nor to schemes confin’d,
His breast was open to the honest mind.
Whatever noble warmth could recommend,
The just, the active, and the constant friend;
Whatever great or good we can adore,
Center’d in him—in him alas! no more.
Thus love, peace, joy, with a distinguish’d grace,
Shone thro’ the features of his friendly face.
How near approaches to a life divine,
The man in whom the peaceful virtues shine?
In public charities he foremost stood,
And likewise private——always doing good.
The poor, in him, a friend was sure to find,
And to their wants, his purse he free resign’d.
Such the kind man! May we like him be wise,
Pursue his virtuous steps, and with him reach the prize.

T.R.

LINES
ON THE DEATH OF
JOHN, LORD DELAVAL;

Who died, May 17th, 1808.—Aged 80.

By M. Harvey.

In hollow murmurs o’er the bending reeds
Sorrow’s keen accents sweep across the meads;
And as the grief-charg’d sound moves sad along,
Unstrings the lute, and stills the wood nymph’s song.
O’er all the sad’n’d scene the mournful train,
In keenest anguish, join the solemn strain;
Whilst recollection, with tenacious power,
Thickens the gloom that damps the passing hour.
The many banner’d trump of clarion fame,
Sounds in full chords the blood stain’d warrior’s name,
Echoes to realms remote, and nations far,
The mighty power of man-destroying war.
Deadens with magic force each softer lay,
That throng’d the courts, and made the vallies gay:
While the vain phantom, honour, barbs the wand,
That waves destruction o’er the smiling land.
And ’midst the accents of her harsher lays,
Shall she forget to sound the good man’s praise?
Forbid it, every spark of social love,
That made, through life, his every passion move;
That taught his heart with sympathy to glow,
To stem the torrent of domestic woe.
Whose open hand strew’d o’er the lowly scene,
Plenty’s gay smiles, and joy’s delighted mien;
Whose presence cheer’d, with animating ray,
Life’s highest walks, and made the gay more gay:
Fitted alike to grace the lordly dome,
Or in the cottage make contentment bloom:
Thy virtues, Delaval, we long shall mourn,
And wash, with unfeign’d tears, thy hallow’d urn.
No laurel wreath, nor high poetic lays
Need bloom, or live in song to sound thy praise;
For whilst thy loss our keenest sorrow moves,
O’er all the past, delighted fancy roves;
Each fond remembrance that reverts to thee,
Tells what our present conduct ought to be;
And points, with heavenward aim, to that Dread Power,
Whose mystic means unfolds the future hour;
Cheers the dark gloom of life’s last setting ray,
And leads us on to everlasting day!

THE WALLSEND RIFLE CORPS.

Of a’ the many bonny corps,
Which now our country nigh fill,
Where can ye shew me sic a corps,
As the bonny Wallsend Rifle?
The bonny Wallsend Rifle,
The canny Wallsend Rifle;
Where can ye shew me sic a corps,
As the bonny Wallsend Rifle?
Whe loups the dykes, an’ climbs the wa’s,
Then thinks it but a trifle?
Why, naen amang the black-breek’d chaps;
Naen but the Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.
They’ve brav’ry aboon the een;
And when on Throckley High Fell,
Th’ Newcastle chaps dar’d not engage;
They tuke the Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.
To see them shut, then run, then shut,
And then fall down or lye still:
O wuns! it’s better than a play,
The bonny Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.
With bravery to kill the French,
Long may their bosoms high fill:
And long may monny on us sing—
The bonny Wallsend Rifle.
The bonny, &c.

SONG.
Written on the King’s Birth-day, 1808.

Tune—Sons of the Tyne.