The Newcastle Song Book Part 42

New rail-roads now spring up like mushrooms, Aw never, maw soul! saw the like, We'll turn every thing topsy-turvy, And leave ourselves not a turnpike; Then horses will live without working, And never more trot in a team, And instead of carrying their maisters, They'll get themsels carried by steam.

These are the days, &c.

Wor ballast-hills now are grown handsome, And what they call quite pictoresk, Ne poet can de them half justice If he writes all his life at his desk; They're hilly, and howley, and lofty, Presenting fresh views every turn, And they'd luik like Vesuvius or Etna, If we could only get them to burn.

These are the days, &c.

And as for aud canny Newcastle, It's now quite a wonderful place, Its New Market, nothing can match it In elegance, beauty, and grace; Could our forefathers only just see it, My eye! they would start wi' surprise, I fancy I just hear them saying-- "What's come of the buggy pigsties?"

These are the days, &c.

And this is a' duin by one Grainger-- A perfect Goliah in bricks, He beats Billy Purvis quite hollow In what ye ca' slight of hand tricks; He's only to say, "c.o.c.k-o-lorum, Fly Jack, presto, quick and be gane,"

And new houses spring up in an instant-- Of the audins you can't see a stane.

These are the days, &c.

In sculler-boats, not very lang syne, The Shields folk cross'd ower the Tyne, But now we have got a big steamer, And cuts quite a wonderful shine; And one that we've got down at Scotland, Delights a' the folks with a ride, For it gans back and forward sae rapid, That it just makes a trip in a tide.

These are the days, &c.

I think I've now told you, my hinnies, The whole of the changes I've seen, At least a' the whirligig fashions That I have been able to glean; So the next time we meet a' together, Some other improvements I'll get, And then we shall make worsels happy, And try a' wor cares to forget.

These are the days, &c.

=On the Attempt to remove the Custom House from Newcastle to Shields, in 1816.=

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

Tynesiders, give ear, and you quickly shall hear A strange and a wonderful story, Of a dreadful uproar upon fam'd Gotham's sh.o.r.e, Where we've brush'd all to heighten our glory.

On the Quayside, so spruce, stands a great Custom House, Of Newcastle the pride and birth-right; Now the sons of Gotham had sworn o'er a dram, That to Gotham it soon should take flight.

A townsman they sent, on great deeds fully bent, A son of the knife and the steel, sirs; And one learn'd in the laws, to argue their cause, The covenants to sign and to seal, sirs.

To London they came, through the high road to fame, Their hearts were both merry and staunch: Of success confident, to the Treasury they went, And demanded they might have a Branch!

False report (only guess) brought to Gotham success, Rejoicing, they blaz'd, without doubt; 'Great Rome,' they now say, 'was not built in one day; 'We've the Branch, and we'll soon have the Root!'

While their thoughts were thus big, over Newcastle brig The Mail came one day, in a hurry: 'What's the news?' say the folk; quick a Briton up spoke, 'No Branch!--so Newcastle be merry.'

'No Branch!' was the cry, re-echoed the sky, And sent down to Gotham a volley; Where the prospect is bad, 'for 'tis fear'd they'll run mad, Or relapse into sad melancholy.

So Gotham beware, and no more lay a snare, Nor think that Newcastle you'll bend; Call your advocates home, your cause to bemoan, And let each his own calling attend.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE TREE, &c.

Tune--"The Quayside Shaver."

Ye folks of Newca.s.sel, so gen'rous, advance, And listen awhile to my humourous strain; 'Tis not the f.a.g end of a fairy romance, Nor yet the effect of a crack in the brain: 'Tis a Custom-house Tree, that was planted with care, And with Newca.s.sel Int'rest well dung'd was the root; And that all Water Fowls might partake of a share, They were kindly permitted to taste of the Fruit.

The Sea Gulls of Shields sought a Branch, so applied To a stately old Drake, of the fresh water breed: He flutter'd his wings, then he bade them provide A Memorial, to send off to London with speed.

His pow'rful opinion was soon put in force, And messengers chose, who, without more delay, Took flight; while blind Ignorance guided their course, And they roosted, I'm told, about Ratcliffe Highway.

Meanwhile, with impatience, a Gull took his gla.s.s, And with anxious concern took a squint to the south; If I don't now behold (may you prove me an a.s.s) A Gull flying back with a Branch in his mouth.

The news quickly spread; they, in wild consternation, Burnt tar-barrels, bells ringing, dancing for joy; A person was sent for to plan the foundation, While others drank Mrs. Carr's wine-cellar dry.

There was one, half seas over, sang 'Little Tom Horner,'

While some in the streets, on their bellies lay flat; Another, 'pon turning the Library Corner, Ran foul of a quaker, and knock'd off his hat.

A full brandy bottle came smack through a window, And hit on the temple a canty old wife; "Don't murmur," say they, "were you burnt to a cinder, "We're able to grant you a pension for life."

Their Gull-eye at London, o'er pudding and roast, Would bet heavy odds he should fortunate be; And then after dinner propos'd, as a toast, "That gra.s.s might soon grow upon Newca.s.sel Kee."

But the Treas'ry decision laid vap'ring aside; "No Branch!" was the cry, so away the Gulls slunk: Should a Twig be lopp'd off, it can ne'er be deny'd, But the roots would soon dry, and thus wither its trunk.

So now I've a scheme, if your fancy I hit, 'Twill suit crazy folks, after dancing mad reels; Instead of a Custom-house Branch, 'twould be fit That a Branch from the Mad-house be rear'd in North Shields.

We'll laugh at the joke, while experience may learn The Gulls, for the future, in peace to remain.

By what you have heard, you may also discern, That premature joy's the forerunner of pain.

THE CUSTOM HOUSE BRANCH.

Tune--"Yo heave O."

The joyous men of North Shields their church bells set a ringing sweet, And tar-barrels blaz'd, their high rapture for to shew; Like bears some fell a dancing, like ravens some were singing sweet, 'Poor Jack,' 'Rule Britannia' and 'Yo heave O.'

Some grog were freely quaffing, Like horses some were laughing; Their matchless powers in bellowing all eager seem'd to shew; The Branch, they cried, we've got, And with it, well we wot, Fitters, bankers, merchants, soon will follow in a row.

The Newcastle deputation, no doubt on't, swagger'd much, sir, Expecting our Pilgarlicks soon foiled would have been; But too hard for them all prov'd the diplomatic Butcher, Whose tongue, like his gully-knife, is marvellously keen, Spite of wheedling and of sneering, Bamboozling and queering, He to his purpose stuck so firm, so true, and so staunch, The Town Clerk and his chums, Stood whistling on their thumbs, Astonish'd, whilst triumphantly he bore away the Branch.

And now since the Custom House we thus have got translated, Why longer should the _County Courts_ Newcastle proudly grace?

We wise-ones of North Shields, tho' reckon'd _addle-pated_, For this pile so magnificent will find a fitter place.

Yon s.p.a.ce[32] which----'s skill, Seems destin'd ne'er to fill With structures worthy Athens' or Corinth's proudest day; Yon s.p.a.ce! O is it not The very, very spot Where the County Courts their splendour so ma.s.sive should display?

If once our gen'ral committee determine, in full quorum, The removal of our Courts, the result will fully shew, That the Lords of the Treasury, and Custos Rotulorum, (Our high displeasure dreading) will not dare to whisper No.

And when the whim impells, To eclipse the Dardanelles; The old Castle of its ancient sight shall straightway take its leave, To brave the billow's shocks, On the dread Black Midden rocks, However for its transit Antiquarians sore may grieve.

Then comes the grand finale, for which our souls we'd barter now; The Regent and his ministers we'll pester night and day, Till tranferr'd to us Newcastle sees her revenues and charter too, And from Heddon streams to Tynemouth bar, Tyne owns our sovereign sway.

O when our town so famous is, Big as Hippopotamuses, We'll strut about the Bank-top quite semi-divine; The neighbouring coasters all, Our greatness shall appall, And their topsails straight they'll lower to the lords of the Tyne.

'Twas thus with idle rumours poor gentlemen delighted, The honest men of North Shields to fancy gave the rein; Sad proof that when ambition with folly is united, Astonishing chimeras oft occupy the brain.

But soon their joy was banish'd, Soon each illusion vanish'd, For news arriv'd the Butcher the Branch could not obtain.

Deep, deep in the dumps, (After playing all his trumps) Just as branchless as he went he was 'toddling hyem' again,

Newcastle, thou dear canny town! O ever thus defeated Be every hostile effort thy prosperity to shake; Long grumbling to thy Custom-house, in gigs and coaches seated, May the honest men of North Shields their daily journies take, And, mounted on their _hacks_, Long, long too, may the _Jacks_ Continue their equestrian skill on Shields road to display; Tho' oft their t.i.ts may stumble, And o'er the _bows_ they tumble, Unhurt, still bold, may they remount, and onward bowl away.