The Newcastle Song Book Part 44

Nae poet Scotia ever knew Could sing sae fine.

With rapture, each returning Spring, I'll follow thee, on Fancy's wing, To where the lively linnets sing In hawthorn shade; Here oft thy muse, deep pondering, Sweet sonnets made.

With thee I'll stray by streamlet's side, And view the bonnie wimpling tide O'er polish'd pebbles smoothly glide, Wi' murm'ring sound, While Nature, in her rustic pride, Smiles all around.

Or to the fells I'll follow thee, Where o'er the thistle b.u.ms the bee, And meek-eyed gowans modestly Their charms disclose, And where, upon its 'thorney tree,'

Blows the wild rose.

Or to the heath, where fairies meet In mystic dance with nimble feet, By moonlight--there the elves I'll greet, And join their revels; Or on a 'rag-weed nag', sae fleet, Fly wi' the devils!

Through fields of beans, with rich perfume, And o'er the braes o' yellow broom That gilds the bonny banks o' Doon, Wi' thee I'll rove, Where thou, when blest in youthful bloom, Stray'd with thy love.

When thunder-storms the heav'ns do rend, Unto Benlomond's top I'll wend, And view the clouds electric vend The forked flash!

And hear the pouring rains descend Wi' dreadful clash!

A fig for meikle bags o' wealth, If I hae food, and claes, and health, And thy sweet sangs upon my shelf, I'll gaily trudge it Through life, and freely quit the pelf For Robin's budget.

And when distracting moments teaze me, Or fell Oppressions grapples seize me, A lesson frae thy book may ease me, Sae I may bear Misfortune's wipes, till death release me Frae canker'd care. H. R.

A PARODY,

_Written on hearing a Report that the Newcastle and Northumberland Yeomanry Cavalry were to be disbanded._

Tune--"The Soldier's Tear."

Upon Newcastle Moor, Poor Matthew cast a look, When he thought on the coming hour, When his brave Noodle Troop Would lay their arms down, No longer them to bear-- The brave defenders of the town-- He wip'd away a tear.

Beside the fatal spot, Where poor Jane did end her strife, He said that he would cut his throat, And end his wretched life-- A life so press'd with care, No longer could he bear-- So wildly then he tore his hair, And wip'd away a tear.

He turn'd and left the ground, Where oft his red, red plume, Had spread its warlike beauty round, To the sound of fife and drum;-- But now his glory's fled-- No longer it he'll wear, But take it quietly from his head, And wipe away a tear.

No more the Tory ranks Will glitter in the sun Nor play at e'en their childish pranks, With blunderbuss or gun; For now the doleful knell Has toll'd their last career, And, horror-struck, poor Matty Bell, Who wip'd away a tear.

WM. GREIG.

_Newcastle on Tyne, May twenty-nine._

THOMAS WHITTELL, his Humourous LETTER To good Master MOODY, Razor-setter.

Good Master Moody, my beard being cloudy, My cheeks, chin, and lips, like moon i' the 'clipse For want of a wipe-- I send you a razor, if you'll be at leisure To grind her, and set her, and make her cut better, You'll e'en light my pipe.[38]

Dear sir, you know little, the case of poor Whittell: I'm courting, tantivy, if you will believe me-- Now mark what I say: I'm frank in my proffers, and when I make offers To kiss the sweet creature, my lips cannot meet her, My beard stops the way.

You've heard my condition, and now I pet.i.tion, That, without omission, with all expedition You'll give it a strike, And send it by Tony, he'll pay you the money-- I'll shave and look bonny, and go to my honey, As snod as you like.

If you do not you'll hip me, my sweetheart will slip me, And if I should smart for't, and break my brave heart for't, Are you not to blame?

But if you'll oblige me, as grat.i.tude guides me, I'll still be your servant, obedient and fervent, Whilst WHITTELL'S my name.

Footnote 38: This phrase means, the conferring of a favour.

THE NATURAL PHILOSOPHER;

_Or, The Downfall of the Learned Humbugs!_

Tune--"Canny Newca.s.sel."

Oh! hae ye not heard o' this wonderful man, Perpetual Motion's inventor!

The Sun, Muin, and Stars are a' doon iv his plan, But take time till it comes frae the prenter!

The last time he lectur'd he tell'd such a tale 'Bout Vibration, Air, and such matter; He can prove that a washing-tub is not a pail, And all Isaac Newton's brains batter!

CHORUS.

Then come, great and sma', and hear the downfa'-- For a fa' down it will be for certain-- Of a' the wiseacres and gon'rals, an' a'

That dare to oppose the great Martin; He'll settle their hash! their necks he will smash, A' the College-bred gowks he will dazzel; Ne mair shall false teachers o'er him cut a dash!

They are banish'd frae Canny Newca.s.sel.

He can prove that a turkey-c.o.c.k is not a Turk!

That a 'tatie is not a pine-apple; He likewise can prove that boil'd goose is not pork, And a black horse is not a grey dapple.

A' what he can prove--a' what he can do, And bother the gon'rals--the wad-be's; He likewise can prove that a boot's not a shoe, And his cane's not a sausage frae _Mawbey's_![39]

Then come, great and sma', &c.

His Poems are sublime, tho' nyen o' them rhyme-- Why, he pays no attention to _Morrow_;[40]

Ne matter for that, still he makes them a' chyme, For he hasn't his phrases to borrow!

Then proceed, mighty man, propagating thy plan, To enlighten this dark age of reason!

May it spread like a blaze, with thy eloquence fann'd-- To doubt it, I hold it sheer treason.

Then come, great and sma', &c.

Footnote 39: A late famed Sausage-maker in the Old Flesh Market.

Footnote 40: Murray's Grammar.

THE GATESHEAD RADS.

To an old Tune.