The Newcastle Song Book Part 53

A chep like a Duke follow'd next, Surrounded wi' n.o.bles se fine, man, Weel dress'd up in silk robes an' ta.s.sels, An' goold that did glitter and shine, man-- Says aw, that's Prince Albert, aw'll sweer-- An' was just gawn to give him three chears, man, When Mally cried--De'il stop yor din!-- Becrike! it's the Dey of Algiers, man.

Rom ti iddity, &c.

The members were toss'd off in stile, In colours of pink, white, and blue, man,-- A tight little chep frae the ranks, Cried, Jack, hinny, how d'ye do, man?-- What, Newton! says aw, now, what cheer!

Aw thowt ye some 'Squire makin' fun, man,-- There's Armstrang, as trig as a Peer, But how's my awd friend, Bobby Nunn, man?

Rom ti iddity, &c.

The Hawk, the Northumberland Star, An' the Magdalen's banners wav'd sweet, man; But the Chieftain astonish'd them all, With his braw Highland lads dress'd sae neat, man; The Nelson appear'd in true blue, (There canny host Simpson belangs, man,) An' Petrie walk'd close alangside O' the chep that writes Newca.s.sel Sangs, man.

Rom ti iddity, &c.

To describe the Flags, Music, an' Stars, Wad take me to doomsday for sartin; Let Foresters brag as they like, But it's all in my eye, Betty Martin.

Wor lads were se pleas'd wi' the seet, Mechanics they'll be before lang, man,-- So aw's gannin to Simpson's to-neet, To sing them this canny bit sang, man.

_Whit-Monday, 1841._

DRUCKEN BELLA ROY, O!

Tune--"Duncan M'Callaghan."

When Bella's comin' hyem at neet, And as she's walking doon the street, The bairns cry out, Whe p.a.w.n'd the sheet?

Wey, drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens to them gans rattlin', rattlin', They set off a gallopin', gallopin', Legs an' arms gan' wallopin', wallopin', For fear o' Bella Roy, O!

Now, when she gans through the chares, Each bairn begins, and shouts and blairs, And cries, as she gans up the stairs, Where's drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens, &c.

Now, if she's had a sup o' beer, She sets ti wark to curse and swear, And myeks them run away, for fear, Frae Drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens, &c.

Believe me, friends, these are her words: She says--Get hyem, ye w----'s birds, Else aw'll bray ye as flat as t----s, Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens, &c.

She says--Ye have a w----e at hyem, And if ye'll not let me alyen, Maw faith, aw'll break your rumple byen, Says drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens, &c.

She'll myek the place like thunner ring, And down the stairs her things will fling, And cry--Get out, yor ---- thing-- Cries drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens, &c.

Then in the house she sits and chats, The bairns, then, hit her door such bats-- She calls them a' the h.e.l.lish cats, Dis drucken Bella Roy, O!

Then styens, &c.

She shouts until she hurts her head, And then she's forc'd to gan' ti bed, Which is a piece of straw, down spread For drucken Bella Roy, O!

Fal, lal, lal, &c.

THE BONNY CLOCK FYECE.

Tune--"The Coal-hole."

O d.i.c.k, what's kept ye a' this time?

Aw've fretted sair about ye-- Aw thought that ye'd fa'n in the Tyne, Then what wad aw duen without ye?

O, hinny, Dolly, sit thee down, And hear the news aw've brought frae toon: The Newca.s.sel folks hev catch'd a meun, And myed it a bonny clock-fyece!

Thou knaws Saint Nicholas' Church, maw pet, Where we were tied tigither,-- That place, aw knaw, thou'll not forget-- Forget it aw will never: 'Twas there, then, jewel, aw saw the seet, As aw cam staggering through the street,-- Aw thought it queer, at pick dark neet, Ti see a fiery clock-fyece.

The folks they stood in flocks about-- Aw cried--How! what's the matter?

Aw glower'd--at last aw gav a shout, For them to fetch some water.

The Church is a-fire, and very suen That bonny place will be brunt down.

Ye fyul, says a chep, it's a bonny meun They've catch'd, and myed it a clock-fyece!

On Monday, when aw gan to wark, Aw'll shurely tell our banksman, If we had such a leet at dark, We never wad break our shanks, man; Maw marrows and aw'll gan ti the toon, Ti see if we can catch a muen;-- If we can only coax one doon, We'll myek't a bonny clock-fyece.

Then if we get it down the pit, We'll hed stuck on a pole, man; 'Twill tell us hoo wor time gans on, Likewise to hew wor coal, man.

So noo, maw pet, let's gan ti bed, And not forget the neet we were wed; Ti-morn we'll tell our uncle, Ned, About the bonny clock-fyece.

THE MUSIC HALL.

Old bards have sung how they could boast Of places that's renown'd, For b.l.o.o.d.y battles won and lost, And royal monarchs crown'd; But all those deeds this place exceeds-- They in the shade must fall, Some have declar'd, if but compar'd To our fam'd Music Hall.

Here zealots join in warm debate, And for their rites contend-- Here Lark-wing spouts on church and state, His popery to defend; With bigot zeal, his country's weal He vows to have at heart-- Yet 'tis well known, throughout the town, He plays a knavish part.

Now, from Hibernia's fertile sh.o.r.e The thund'ring champion comes, His country's wrongs for to deplore, With trumpets, fife, and drums; He tells them, too, he is most true, Their firm, unshaken friend, While life Shall last, he will stand fast, And all their rights defend.

Then champions of another grade-- I mean, of fistic lore-- Deaf Burke, the bouncing gasconade, Struts o'er the s.p.a.cious floor, Who, with great art, performs his part, In teaching self-defence; Yet plain I saw, he meant to draw Fools' shillings, pounds, and pence.

Next comes a man of fangles new-- Of worlds, and moons, and stars-- Who said, Sir Isaac never knew The Ple-i-ades from Mars The folks throng'd round from all the town, And some p.r.o.nounc'd him clever, Yet, I've been told, both young and old Return'd as wise as ever.

Apollo, too, his court here keeps, With sirens in his train-- Each trembling note of music sweeps Transport through every vein: When Orpheus play'd within the shade, He made the woods resound; The list'ning beasts forsook the mead, And stood, like statues, round.

A graver scene my muse has caught, Where sages, in a row-- Men, by the Holy Spirit taught The gospel truths t' avow-- Those who have trod, to serve their G.o.d, The sh.o.r.es of foreign land, At his command, now boldly stand T' implore a helping hand.

And not unfrequent, as we stray This wond'rous place to see, We find it fill'd with ladies gay, To take a cup of tea; And many a gent, who is content With such domestic fare, Has often sat, in social chat, And join'd in many a prayer.

Of many more there is one cla.s.s, Which merits some attention-- Not Baccha.n.a.lians, alas!

For such I would not mention-- But men of brains, the smell of grains Would strike with detestation, Who'd keep us dry, and thus decry All liquors in the nation.

Nay, come what will of good or ill, Just only make a trial-- If you the owner's pockets fill, You'll meet with no denial; And men, I hear, from far and near, Have given attestation, So strong a place they cannot trace In any other nation.