The Newcastle Song Book Part 64

"Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha'; And, weeping at the eve of life, I wander through a wreath o' snaw."

Footnote 52: This song comes highly recommended to public notice by the warm commendation of the poet Burns, who, in a letter to his friend, Mr.

Thompson, writes--"DONOCHT-HEAD is not mine--I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it." And Dr. Currie says, respecting this song, that "the author need not have been ashamed to own himself, as it is worthy of the pen of Burns or Macnell."

THE HERBAGE COMMITTEE[53],

(That is, The Jewel of a Committee).

BY R. GILCHRIST.

_Not composed over the midnight oil, but amid the noon-day broil of the Barge-day, May 8, 1834._

ADDRESSED TO THE CHAIRMAN.

While others of great deeds may dream, Yet still commend to me, sir, A subject rare, and prouder theme, The Herbage Committee, sir: This Committee a jewel was, From truth that never swerv'd sir, And gain'd much glory and applause, And well they both deserv'd, sir.

The time has been when bread and cheese Was wont to be their fare, sir, What think ye now of turkeys, geese, A partridge, or a hare, sir!

Well I remind their many joys, And many happy days, sir, For O they were the bonny boys For getting up surveys, sir.

I have seen gallant Mister Woods, And Mr Grainger, too, sir, Approach us--though dress'd in our duds-- With an obsequeous bow, sir; For MARTIN, MIEKLE, and MAGGALL, CALBREATH, friend CHARLES, and me, sir, WANLESS and ANGUS, GARRETT--all Were in the Committee, sir!

Who then wad wish to be a Mayor, Recorder, or Town Clerk, sir?

To serve in office, send me there, To hear each sage remark, sir; And O, indeed, I fear it much, Their like there never will be, sir-- No, never, never more be such An Herbage Committee, sir.

Footnote: 53 The Committee were--William Martin, William Miekle, William Maggall, James Calbreath, Charles Stephenson, the Author, William Wanless, William Angus, and William Garrett. Their activity and unanimity were proverbial.

THE BEAR CLUB.

Good dinners to our n.o.ble Queen, And many may she see, sir, And much I wish she could have seen The Bear-club Committee, sir: Her cooks, no doubt, with skill refin'd, Have cater'd long with care, sir, But much, I doubt, they ever din'd Her Majesty of Bears, sir.

'Tis said the Kings of India Can eat some pretty things, sir; You need not go so far away To see the _Indian Kings_, sir: The landlord there can at his call Serve up some pleasant fare, sir-- _Mac_ now has clean eclipsed them all, And made us eat a Bear, sir.

Some talk about the Esquimaux, And tell of Cherokees, sir, Hottentots and Marathas, And folks in the South Seas, sir; 'Tis said they sometimes cut a swell In dishes odd and rare, sir, But we from them will bear the bell, For we have eat a Bear, sir.

All times have had their men of taste, Each pa.s.sing age adorning, Who, rather than good stuff should waste, Would eat from night till morning: To us they must knock under now-- We've given them a scare, sir; They all could eat a sheep or so, But we can eat a Bear, sir.

Now as you chance to walk the street, How every dog will run, sir, Lest you should roast him for a treat, And eat him up in fun, sir; The Quayside horses, loaded well, Will scamper off like hares, sir, To see, not Bears all eating men, But men all eating Bears, sir.

The next time, sir, you eat a Bear, Grant this my supplication-- Invite to dine our canny Mayor, And hungry Corporation; In seeking for a friend like you, They're looking lean and spare, sir, So in compa.s.sion send them now The fragments of the Bear, sir.

_R. Gilchrist._

THE La.s.s OF WINCOMBLEE.

Tune--"Nae Luck about the House."

Now all ye lilies hang your heeds, Ye roses bloom nae mair, Ye tulips all, put on your weeds, All, posies may despair.

For not a la.s.s on all Tyneside, Frae Stella to the sea, Can marrow Moll the evergreen Of bonny Wincomblee.

For not a la.s.s, &c.

Her een shine like a davy-lamp, Or like a summer's day-- Her voice sae like the after-damp, Near teuk my breath away Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet, Or honey frae the bee; But sweeter far than byeth o' these Is Moll of Wincomblee.

Her feet are like twe bits ov cork, When running iv a reel-- Tiv "Shiver the Rags" and "Off she goes,"

She can cut an' shuffle weel; Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets She'll tyek a walk wi' me, Call at Scrogg House, round Byker fields, And back by Walker Kee.

When Jinny Pit it has full wark, We settled for te wed-- The fiddle sal play frae break o' day, Till we get snug in bed; Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill, Singin hinnies to your tea-- Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet Ere was seen at Wincomblee.

Tho' time rolls on, and so it may, As Tyne rolls to the sea, Fresh as an evergreen is Moll Of bonny Wincomblee.

ON THE DEATH OF BOLD ARCHY.

Bold Archy's dead! and long for him will poor Newcastle fret, Her sun of glory has gone down, her brightest star is set: From the _Blue Stone_ to _Cawsey Bridge_, from _Tynemouth Bar_ and round by _Stella_, Not one remains to fill the seat left vacant by this honest fellow.

The funeral flag hung drooping low as he was carried by, And many gaz'd, and many a tear was wip'd from many an eye; And all did then the truth record;--warm was the heart now still and caller-- So lay him softly in the sod, fam'd man of might, and prince of valour!

Farewell! farewell! my local harp I'll bury with the brave, And sadly plant my local wreath to flourish on his grave!

Both English and outlandish names must one day pa.s.s oblivion's portal, But Archy's shall survive them all, and well deserves to be immortal.

R. GILCHRIST.

_May 9, 1828._

BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.

Newcastle's now a dowly place--all things seem sore ac.l.i.te, For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight; Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed, For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted.

He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want, He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant; Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented, His was the lot too few have known--to live content, and die contented.