The Newcastle Song Book Part 14

My sankers! we're all in a fine hobble now, Since the Cholera com tiv our river; Aw wadn't hae car'd if 'twas ought that one knew, But the outlandish nyem myeks one s.h.i.+ver: Our doctors are all in a deuce of a way.

And some says they've _Clannied_ to wrang us; But I think we may all curse the _Daun_ o' that day, That the _block_-headed _Board_ com amang us.

Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem, For lettin the s.h.i.+ps up the watter-- That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem, And some says that myed little matter; But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see, (At least, all my life aw hev thought it,) Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me, That it was one _Mall Airey_ (Malaria) that brought it.

This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem, If one may believe what they're talking; It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem, And sometimes when they're out a walking: Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day, Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him; But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way, Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.

Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd; Ony nonsense--they never will mis't; My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd, And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list: Aw never was _chol'ric_, but quiet, aw's sure, Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy; So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure, Aw's your servant, A SUNDERLAND JAMMY.

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH--(_Cholera Morbus._)

_By John M'Lellan._

The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise, He frights the country round, sirs; That if yen i' the guts hez pain, By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.

It was but just the tother day, A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs, Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see, Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem, But hoo, aw canna tell ye; When thunnering at the door he cries, And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly-- Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad, Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now, For that d----d plague that's killing a', Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?

Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'-- 'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd, An' kills folks by wholesale, now.

Somehow he creeps up the back way; Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly-- For now he's dancin thro' and thro', And up and down maw belly.'

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd, Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs, And swore that for a new _lapstane_, The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.

He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hear His rumbling and his raking, He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair, Sure o' them he's _wax-ends_ making.'

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Now Nell aff ran to Doctor Belch, And tell'd Tom's case in fright, sirs, Wha gav her stuff whilk varra seun Set Tommy's guts to right, sirs.

And when that his sad pain was eas'd, He blam'd nyen but himsel, sirs, But swore he ne'er agyen at Sheels Wad drink their d----d new yell, sirs.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CAUTION.

Now, neighbours, divent drink to excess-- A canny sober course steer; Be cleanly, and be temperate, And the Cobbler o' Morpeth ne'er fear.

But if he should amang huz come, To th' Infirm'ry we will send him; And seun they'll purge his au'd saul out, If that they cannot mend him.

Bow, wow, wow, &c.

CANNY SHEELS.

(_By John Morris._)

'Bout Newca.s.sel they've written sae mony fine sangs, And compar'd their bit place unti Lunnun; What a shem that 'tiv Sheels not a poet belangs, For to tell them they lee wi' their funnin.

They may boast o' their s.h.i.+ppin without ony doubt, For there's nyen can deny that they've plenty; But for every yen they are gobbing about, Aw'm sure we can shew them, ey twenty!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair, With their clarty bit au'd Corporation; For it's varry weel knawn Sheels pays her full share For to keep Mister Mayor iv his station.

They hev a bit place where they myek a few shot, Lunnun's Column tiv it's like a nine-pin; And St. Nicholas compar'd wi' St. Paul's an' what not, Wey it's a yuven compar'd tiv a limekiln.

If their Shot Tower sae hee was plac'd on wor Sand End, 'Side wor Light House to scraffle to glory; Their journey to heaven wad suen hev an end, For by gox they'd ne'er reach the first story.

Let them haud, &c.

They call their Infirm'ry a place for a king, To be stow'd 'mang the sick, lyem, and lazy; If a Sheels man had ventur'd to say sic a thing, The blind gowks wad a' said he was crazy.

'Bout their Custom House tee they myek a great rout, That the e'en o' the folk it diz dazzel; But if a' gans reet Sheels, without ony doubt, Will suen eclipse that at Canny Newca.s.sel.

Let them haud, &c.

Then they brag they leuk bonny, fresh-colored and gay, And the Lunnun folk a' wishey washey; But L----d put it off tiv a far distant day, That there's one on huz here leuks sae trashy.

Then they boast o' Sir Matthew--but never enquire If the foundation's good that he stood on; But if he comes up to wor canny au'd Squire, Then becrikes he is nowse but a good 'un.

Let them haud, &c.

But the Squire, canny man, he's gyen frae the toon, And aw'm sure on't the poor sairly miss him; For oft as aw wauk Pearson's Raw up and doon, Aw hear the folk cry, Heaven bliss him!

Yet aw hope, an' aw trust, he'll suen find his way hyem, And aw's sure aw'll be glad to hear tell on't; For aw've varry oft thowt--did ye ne'er think the syem, Since he's gyen Sheels hezzent luik't like the sel on't.

Let them haud, &c.

Then lang life to the King and wor awn n.o.ble Duik, May Sheels lang partake of his bounty; For Newca.s.sel, ye ken, if ye e'er read a buik, Is at yence byeth a toon and a county.

Northumberland's Duik may still shew his sel there, But his int'rest frae Sheels ne'er can sever; So aw'll gie ye just now, shou'd aw ne'er see ye mair, Wor Duik and wor d.u.c.h.ess for ever!

Let them haud their fule gobs then & brag us ne mair, Wi' their this, that, and t'other sae cliver; We'll aw drink as lang's we've a penny to spare, Here's success to wor awn town for ever!!!

PERMANENT YEAST.

Jack Hume one day cam into toon, And efter wandering up and doon, He bought some things, and 'mang the rest, A bottle of Permanent Yeast.

Fal de ral la, &c.

Now when he'd getten a' things reet, He was gaun trudging hyem at neet, When on the road he heard a crack, An' fand a bullet in his back.

Fal de ral la, &c.

He fell directly on the spot, For Jack imagin'd he was shot; Some said he'd liquor in his head, And others thought that he was dead.

Fal de ral la, &c.

But Jack suen gav a greet groan out, And after that he com about, He says, O bring a Doctor here!

Or else aw'll suen be deed, aw fear, Fal de ral la, &c.

O neighbours, de tyek off maw sark, And try if ye can find the mark!

They leuk'd, but nought there could be seen, They wonder'd a' what it had been.

Fal de ral la, &c.

But, howe'er, it cam to pa.s.s, Out of his pocket fell some gla.s.s: Now then, says Jack, it is ne joke, See there's maw good yeast bottle broke!

Fal de ral la, &c.