The Newcastle Song Book Part 24

Footnote 5: Sign of the Black Boy, Great Market.

Footnote 6: Gateshead Fell.

Footnote 7: William Purvis, a blind fiddler so called.

THE TYNE.

By the Same--Written in 1807.

In Britain's blest island there runs a fine river, Far fam'd for the ore it conveys from the mine: Northumbria's pride, and that district doth sever From Durham's rising hills, and 'tis called--the Tyne.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, undisturb'd be thy motion, Thy sons hold the threats of proud France in disdain; As long as thy waters shall mix with the ocean, The fleets of Old England will govern the main.

Other rivers for fame have by poets been noted In many a soft-sounding musical line; But for sailors and coals never one was yet quoted, Could vie with the choicest of rivers--the Tyne.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

When Collingwood conquer'd our foes so completely, And gain'd a fine laurel, his brow to entwine; In order to manage the matter quite neatly, Mann'd his vessel with tars from the banks of the Tyne.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

Thou dearest of rivers, oft-times have I wander'd Thy margin along when oppress'd sore with grief, And thought of thy stream, as it onward meander'd, The murmuring melody gave me relief.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

From the fragrant wild flowers that blow on thy border, The playful Zephyrus oft steals an embrace, And curling thy surface in beauteous order, The willows bend forward to kiss thy clear face.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

One favour I crave--O kind fortune befriend me!

When downhill I totter, in Nature's decline-- A competent income--if this thou wilt send me, I'll dwindle out life on the banks of the Tyne.

Flow on, lovely Tyne, &c.

THE SPRING.

By the Same.--Written early in May, 1809.

Now the gay feather'd train, in each bush, Court their mates, and love's melody sing-- The blackbird, the linnet, and thrush, Make the echoing valleys to ring.

The bird with the crimson-dy'd breast, From the hamlet has made his remove, To join his love-song with the rest, And woo his fond mate in the grove.

The lark, high in ether afloat, Each morn, as he ushers the day, Attunes his wild-warbling throat, And sings his melodious lay.

Yon bank lately cover'd with snow, Now smiles in the spring's bloomy pride; And the sweet-scented primroses grow Near the streamlet's sweet gurgling tide.

To the banks of the Tyne we'll away, And view the enrapturing scene, While Flora, the G.o.ddess of May, With her flow'rets bespangles the green.

PARSON MALTHUS.

By the Same.--Written in 1826.

Tune--"Ranting roaring Willie."

Good people, if you'll pay attention, I'll tell you a comical jest; The theme I'm about now to mention Alludes to one Malthus, a priest-- A proud, hypocritical preacher, Who feeds on t.i.the-pigs and good wine; But him I shall prove a false teacher-- Oh, all things have but a time.

Some years ago, through all the nation, He publish'd a scandalous book-- An Essay about "POPULATION;"

But widely his text he mistook.

From marriage his plan's to restrain all Poor people who are in their prime, Lest the earth prove too small to contain all-- Such notions can last but a time.

But the Clergy who're plac'd in snug station, The n.o.bles, and such like fine folks, May continue their multiplication-- What think you, my friends, of such jokes?

What think you of Malthus the Parson, Who slights each injunction divine, And laughs while he carries the farce on;-- But all things have but a time.

When the poor folk of hunger are dying, He deems it no sin in the _great_, Their hands to with-hold from supplying The wretched with victuals to eat!

Such doctrine--sure a great evil-- Becomes not a Christian Divine; 'Tis more like the speech of the Devil;-- But all things have but a time.

Now, my friends, you will readily see Malthus' argument's not worth a curse; For to starve the industrious bee, Is no better than killing the goose.

That he does not believe in the Bible, His book is a very true sign; On Sacred Writ 'tis a libel-- Such trash can last but for a time.

Place the drones on one part of our isle, The industrious cla.s.s on the other; There the former may simper and smile, And bow and sc.r.a.pe each to his brother: They can neither plough, throw the shuttle, Nor build with stone and lime; They'll then get but little to guttle, And may grow wiser in time.

Ye blithe British lads and ye la.s.ses, Ne'er heed this daft, whimsical Priest; Get sweethearts in spite of such a.s.ses-- The BIBLE PLAN sure is the best: Then away go in couples together, And marry while you're in your prime, And strive to agree with each other, For life only lasts a short time!

PETER WAGGY.

By the Same--Written in 1826.

I, when a child, for trinket ware Would often cry to mam and daddie: With other trifles, from the fair, Dad brought me once a Peter Waggy.

Fine dolls, and many things forby, A gilded coach and little naggie; But oh, the darling of my eye, Was little dancing Peter Waggy!

Love of such trifles time destroys-- At length each well-grown la.s.s and laddie Seeks to be pleas'd with other toys, Some other sort of Peter Waggy.

A lover came to me at last, In courting me he ne'er grew f.a.ggy; Now he and I are buckled fast-- He is my darling Peter Waggy.

We've got a boy of beauty rare, A credit to his mam and daddie; When I go to Newcastle Fair, I'll buy my child a Peter Waggy.