The Newcastle Song Book Part 18

THE LOCAL MILITIA-MAN.

Tune--"Madam f.a.g's Gala."

How! marrows, aw'se tip you a sang, If ye'll n.o.bbit give your attention, Aw've sarrow'd maw king seven years, And aw'm now luikin out for the pension.

But when my adventures aw tell, An' should ye fin reason to doubt it, An' think it mair than aw deserve, Aw'se just rest contented without it.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Ye mun ken, when aw first went to drill, Maw gun aw flang owre maw heed, Fell'd the chep that stuid close in ahint me, He lay kickin and sprawlin for deed.

But when wor manuvres we lairn'd, Wor Cornel o' huz grew se fond, man, He match'd us gyen four smashing targets, Close ower ayont Heslop's Pond, man.

Rum ti idity, &c.

We mairch'd off at nine i' the mornin, And at four we were not quite duin, While a bite never enter'd our thropples: Wi' hunger were fit to lie doon.

But wor fellows they tuik sic an aim, Ye wad thought that they shot for a wager; And yen chep, the deil pay his hide, He varra nigh shot the Drum-Major.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Suin efter, 'twas on the Vairge Day, 'Bout the time that wor Cornel was Mayor, Fra Gyetshead we fir'd ower their heeds, Myed the fokes in Newca.s.sel to stare.

To Newburn we then bore away, And embark'd just beside a great Dung-hole, Wi' biscuit and plenty o' yell, And wor Adjutant Clerk o' the Bung-hole.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Wor Triangular Lad lowp'd first ash.o.r.e, When the folks ran like cows or mad bulls; Iv a jiffy they cam back to fight us, Wi' pokers and three-footed stuils.

When they fand he was not Bonnyparty, Nor nyen ov his sowgers frae France, The music then started to play, And we for to caper and dance.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Sic wark as we had efter that, Wad tyek a lang day for to tell, How we fronted, an' flankt it, an' maircht Through the sowgers at Thropley Fell, At the Play-house we've shin'd mony a time, Wor scaups a' besmatter-d wi' flour; But that neet it wad myed the deil gurn, To see us a' powthert wi' stour.

Rum ti idity, &c.

Yen day we were form'd in a ring, And wor Cornel said this, 'at ne'er spoke ill, "Ye your sarvis, my lads, mun transfer Tiv a core caw'd the Durham Foot Local."

So tiv Sunderland if ye'd but gan, And see us a' stand in a line, Ye'd swear that a few finer fellows Ne'er cam fra the Wear and the Tyne.

Rum ti idity, &c.

MASQUERADE AT NEWCASTLE THEATRE;

_Or, The Pitman turned Critic_.

As Jemmy the brakesman and me Was taukin 'bout sentries and drill, We saw, clagg'd agyen a yek tree, A fower-square little hand-bill.

Says Jemmy, Now halt tiv aw read her; When up cam wor canny au'd Sairgan: Says he, Ye mun come to the Teapot, On Friday, and get yor dischairge, man.

Tol de rol, &c.

We dress'd worsels smart, cam to toon, Mister Government paid us wor bra.s.s: Then we swagger'd off to the Hauf Meun, To rozzel wor n.o.bs wiv a gla.s.s.

We sang, smok'd, and fuddled away, And cut mony a wonderful caper; Says aw, Smash! howay to the Play, Or, what some folks ca' a Theater.

Tol de rol, &c.

We ran, and seun fand a good plyace, Aye, before they'd weel hoisted their leets; When a lyedy, wi' gauze ower her fyece, Cam an' tummel'd ower twe o' the seats.

Aw hardly kend what for to say; But says aw, Div ye fin owse the wa.r.s.e?

Says her neybeur, Pop Folly's the Play, And Maskamagrady's the Farce.

Tol de rol, &c.

The Players they cam on iv dozens, Wiv fine dusty buits without spurs; And they tauk'd about mothers and cousins, So did Jemmy and me about wors.

We had plenty o' fiddlin and fleutin, Till the bugles began for to blaw; Then aw thowt aw heerd wor Major shootin, Fa' in, my lads! stand in a raw!

Tol de rol, &c.

We then see'd a little smart chap, Went lowpin and skippin aboot; Says aw, Smash! thou is up to trap!

For he let the fokes byeth in and out.

There was Fawstaff, a fat luikin fellow, Wiv a Miss in each airm, being drunkey; Then a black Lyedy, wiv a numbrella, A fiddler, a bear, and a monkey.

Tol de rol, &c.

Next cam on a swaggerin blade, He's humpt o' byeth shouthers an' legs; A blackymoor, painter by trade, And o' dancing was myekin his brags: When a collier cam on, quick as thowt, Maw sarties! but he gat a pauler; Says he, Smash! aw'll dance thou for owt; Then says aw, Five to fower on Kit Swaller!

Tol de rol, &c.

He danc'd the Keel Row to sic tune, His marrow declar'd he was bet: Some yell ower Kit's shouthers was slung, So they byeth had their thropples weel wet.

A lyem sowger cam on wiv twee sticks, Then a bussy-tail'd pinkey wee Frenchman; Next a chep, wiv some young lunaticks, Was wanting the mad-house at Bensham.

Tol de rol, &c.

There was Punch fed his bairn wiv a ladle, And ga'd some kirn milk for to lyep; Then he thumpt it till he wasn't yebbel, Because the poor thing cuddent gyep.

Some were shootin shoe-ties iv a street; Lang Pat, wiv his last dyin speeches, Wagg'd hands wiv a la.s.s, that, yen neet, Tuik seven-pence out o' maw breeches.

Tol de rol, &c.

Then a gentleman's housey tuik feyre, As the watchman caw'd 'Past ten o'clock!'

The manny fell into the meyre, And the wife ran away iv her smock.

The Skipper that saddled the cow, And rid seven miles for the howdy, Was dancing wiv Jenny Bawloo, That scadded her gob wiv a crowdy.

Tol de rol, &c.

Then a chep, wiv a show on his back, Cam and show'd us fine pictures, se funny; He whupt it a' off in a crack, Because they wad gether ne money.

To end with, there cam a Balloon, But some gav it's puddings a slit, man; For, afore it gat up to the meun, It emptied itsel i' the pit, man.

Tol de rol, &c.

NANCY WILKINSON.

At Cullercoats, near to the sea, Lives one I often think upon; Bewitching is the lovely e'e Of bonny Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, or Coquet clear, No swain did ever blink upon A charmer equal to my dear, My handsome Nancy Wilkinson.

Sweet cherry cheeks, a lofty brow, Bright hair, that waves in links upon A neck, white as the purest snow, Has comely Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

Her virtues, like her beauty, rare; But terms I ne'er can think upon, Fit to panegyrise my fair, My constant Nancy Wilkinson.

By Tyne, or Blyth, &c.

For her rich ladies I'd refuse, With all their shining tinsels on; None else can wake my slumbering Muse, But lovely Nancy Wilkinson.