The Newcastle Song Book Part 30

THE OWL.

Written Feb. 1826.

Tune--X, Y, Z.

Now run away amang the sn.o.bs, An' stangies i' the Garth, man, An hear about the greet black Owl, That's let on Cappy's hearth, man-- Of sic a breed, the Deil his sell Its marrow canna find in h.e.l.l!

It hops about wiv its slouch hat, Can worry mice like wor Tom-cat-- And sic a yarkin blubber heed, It bangs X, Y, that famous steed, Or ony thing ye like, man.

Oft frev its nest, in Cabbage Square, It flaffer'd out at neets, man, 'Mang sic a flock that neetly blare, And carry crooks and leets, man-- Then prowl'd wor streets in search o' prey, And if a mouse but cross'd his way, He quickly had it by the nose, And pawk'd it off to kuel its toes-- Did Hoo! Hoo! wi' the blubber heed, That bangs X, Y, that famous steed-- So, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

To tell how Cappy gat this burd, Aw wad be rather fash'd, man; Some say that, of its awn accord, It went to get _white wash'd_, man.

So scrub him, Cap, with a' yor might, Just n.o.bbit make the lubbart white-- But if yor brushin' winna dee, There's Waller Watson, Walton, tee, They'll scrub him as they did before, And make the bowdy-kite to roar-- If Cappy keeps him tight, man.

St. Nich'las' bells now sweetly ring, Yor music's sae bewitchin'-- Ye lads in Neil's[12] now louder sing, And warble weel h.e.l.l's Kitchen[13]-- For yor au'd friend is in the trap, Alang wi' his awn brother, Cap: Then shout hurra! agyen we're free, At neets to hev a canny spree; In gannin hyem, ne mair we'll dreed The lubbart wi' the chuckle heed-- Mind, Cappy, keep him tight, man.

Footnote 12: A famed public-house at the head of Manor-chare.

Footnote 13: The tap-room of a famed public-house, near the head of Groat market.

LOVELY DELIA.

Tune--"Sleeping Maggie."

Upon the flow'ry banks o' Tyne, The rose and myrtle may entwine; But were there every sweet divine, They wadna a' be like my Delia.

Clear beams the eye o' Delia, Heaven's in the smile o' Delia; Nor flowers that blaw, nor falling snaw, Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Gently blaw, thou whistlin' wind, Along the bonny banks o' Tyne, Where nature every grace combin'd When she first form'd my life, my Delia!

Clear beams the eye o' Delia, Heaven's in the smile o' Delia; Nor flower that blaws, nor winter snaws, Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Tho' a' the wee birds round me sing, To welcome back the blithefu' spring; Yet a' the music they can bring Is nae sae sweet's the voice o' Delia.

Clear beams the eye o' Delia, Heaven's in the smile o' Delia; Nor flower that blaws, nor drifting snaws, Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

The bonny little playfu' lamb, That frisks along the verdant plain, Is nae mair free fra guilty stain, Than is my life, my love, my Delia.

Clear beams the eye o' Delia, Heaven's in the smile o' Delia; Nor flowers that blaw, nor whitest snaw, Were e'er sae pure as my sweet Delia.

The priests they tell us, all above, With angels, do delight in love; Then surely angels must approve Their image in my lovely Delia.

Clear beams the eye o' Delia, Heaven's in the smile o' Delia; Nor flower that blaws, nor new-born snaws, Were e'er sae pure as lovely Delia.

Truth and kindness ever reigns, In a' her heart, through a' her veins; Yet nane shall ken the pleasing pains I hae endur'd for my sweet Delia.

Heaven's in the smile o' Delia, Blight's the beam in her dark eye; Nor flower that blaws, nor virgin snaws, Were e'er sae pure as my lov'd Delia.

PANDON DEAN.

Tune--"Banks o' Doon."

Farewell, ye fragrant, shady groves!

Farewell, thou charming sylvan scene, Where partial mem'ry hapless roves-- I bid adieu to Pandon Dean.

I bid ye all a long adieu, And fare thee well, my lovely Jean; Thine equal I shall never view, Whilst far awa' fra Pandon Dean.

The songsters chanting on the spray, The shrubs and flowers, sae fresh and green, Increase my heart's tumultuous play, Which dwells on thee and Pandon Dean.

Though far awa' in foreign lands, And trackless oceans foam between, I ne'er shall break those dearest bands Thou wreath'dst for me in Pandon Dean.

These to my heart shall dearest be, When sharp afflictions pierce me keen; 'Twill soothe my woes to think on thee, Thou fairest flower in Pandon Dean.

If Fortune smile, I'll then return, To deck my love in silken sheen; And dwell with her just by the burn That wimples through the bonny Dean.

THE NEWCASTLE HACKNEYS.

The Londoners long for example we've chose, And imported each fashion as fast as it 'rose; But the best hit of all, in our awkward approaches, Is St. Nicholas' Square, and the new hackney coaches.

The ladies have long had advantage of man, In that easy conveyance, a walking sedan; Now the tables are turn'd on the opposite side, For the ladies must walk while the gentlemen ride.

When our beaux are dress'd out for a rout or a ball, They've nothing to do but a hackney to call-- Consult not the weather, nor m.u.f.fle their chins-- No danger of breaking, o'er sc.r.a.pers, their shins.

When a couple's resolv'd on a trip to the church, Where a lady has sometimes been left in the lurch; To prevent a misfortune like this, for the future, Pack up in a hackney your amiable suitor.

When impertinent tradesmen you're likely to meet, Or a bailiff descry at the end of the street-- Press into your service a hackney and pair, For the devil himself would not look for you there.

To many things else they'll apply, I've a notion, They'll even be found to a.s.sist your devotion; The doctors will find them most useful, no doubt on't, In peopling the world, or to send people out on't.

Then success to the hackneys, and long may they roll-- Of b.a.l.l.s and a.s.semblies the life and the soul: Since so useful they are, and so cheap is the fare, Pray who would not ride in a carriage and pair?

NEWCASTLE HACKNEY COACHES.

Tune--"The bold Dragoon."

Of a' the toons that's i' the north, Newcastle bangs them a', For lady folk and gentlemen, And every thing that's braw, A fig for Lunnen i' the South-- But mind now, let's hae nae reproaches, For they say that Lunnen's hang'd hersel, Through spite at wor new Hackney Coaches.

Yep! fal der al dal, &c.