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Some time since a Pitman was tyen very bad, So caw'd his wife Mall te the side of oady bed; 'Thou mun run for a doctor, the forst can be fund, For maw belly's a' wrang, an' aw'm varry fast bund. Here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed. Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst; Aw's freeten'd that stopple it will be the worst,'— 'Oh, Mally!
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Lord bliss us! Now aw think it's high time to be steppin, We've sitten tiv aw's about lyem. Aw star'd, and thought it was shameful: Never mind, says aw, canny lass. The wives scamper'd off for fear he should bite, The men-folks and dogs ran te grip him se tight; If we catch him, said they, he's hev ne lodging here, Ne, not e'en a drop o' Reed Robin's sma' beer.
To Tynemouth then aw thowt aw'd trudge, To see the folks a' duckin; Loak! No haste did they seem in, their task to complete, Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise; Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord 'Size.
The Newcastle Song Book. Being A Collection Of Comic And Satirical Songs. A Project Gutenberg eBook
Thou knaws, ever since we were little, Together we've rang'd through the woods; At neets hand in hand toddled hyem, Very oft wi' howl kites and torn duds:[Pg 22] But now we can talk about mairage, An' lang sair for wor weddin day; When mairied thou's keep a bit shop, And sell things in a huikstery way. There was male and female lean an' fat, An' some wi' whiskers like a cat; But a Barber's 'water-proof silk hat' Was thought the tip at Sunderland.
Sae aw huik'd him, and haul'd him suin into lg keel, And o' top o' the huddock aw rowl d him aboot; An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' a skelp'd his back weel, But the water he'd drucken it wadn't run oot. The folks cam flocking ower the keels, Betwixt Newcassel Key and Lr, Before she ply'd her powerful wheels, To work their way to Sunderland. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.
Up Shields Road as they trudg'd, wi' their half worn out soals, Oft b——r—g the Empty Kyte, Skipper, and coals, At the of the Coach they byeth call'd, it befel, To moan their hard fates, and to swattle some yell. Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome To eat and to drink till you stare; I've told you what meat's to be Seeknig it, I'll next tell you Seekiny to be there.
Sae I brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain, Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries; For ye see there he's lying as deed as a stane, An' that's a' aw can tell ye about my Seeing 'Size. An' when the Malls began their reels, Aw kick'd maw heels reet murry; For faix!
Wor Geordies now we thrimmel'd out, An' tread a' Shiels sae dinny; Maw faix! Wor neybors, that's snuffers and smokers, For wor snuff and backey they'll seek; And to shew them we deal wi' Newcassel, Twee Blackeys sal mense the door cheek.
The sky was clear, the day was fine, Ffor dress an' luggage all in stile; An' they thought to cut a wond'rous shine, When they got safe to Sunderland. As we push'd off, loak!
She soon amongst the heap was thrown, While here and there they sat alone: Poor Puff had passage up and down, But none could get from Sunderland. Then when aw gans to see the lass, It's in the Nfwcastle An' then we gans a wauking, Wi' her fine lustre goon.
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See more It's a fluiker, ki Dick; No, ki Matt, it's owre big, It luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise: Kiv aw—for aw'd gettin a gliff o' the wig— Ods marcy! Oft stretch'd were their necks, oft erected their ears, Still fancying they heard of the trumpets the sound, When tidings arriv'd, which dissolv'd them Seeeking tears, That my Lord at the dead-house was then lying drown'd! Quite soft blew the wind from the west, The sun faintly shone lasy the sky, When Lukey and Bessy sat courting, As walking I chanc'd to espy.
First the stem he survey'd, then inspected the stern, Then handled the tiller, and look'd ffor wise; But he made a false step when about to return, And souse in the water straight tumbled Lord 'Size.
Here a buck at a surloin hard eating was seen, And he said that the air myed his appetite keen;— 'Appetite! By this affair your reason guide, When on the seas you'd wish to ride, Choose a good strong ship with wind and tide; And so good bye to Sunderland. And when aw gets a pint o' beer, Aw a'wis sings a sang; For aw've a nice yen aw can sing, Six an' thorty vairses lang.
Here's somethin 'ill mend thou, suppose thou was deed. Thou mun eat up that haggish, but sup the thin forst; Aw's freeten'd that stopple it will be the worst,'— 'Oh, Mally!
And to get us a canny bit leevin, A' kinds o' fine sweetmeats we'll sell, Reed herrin, broon syep, and mint candy, Black pepper, dye sand, and sma' yell; Spice hunters, pick shafts, farden candles, Wax dollies, wi' reed leather shoes, Chalk pussy-cats, fine curly greens, Paper skyets, penny pies, an' huil-doos. Of sausages there will be plenty, Black puddings, sheep fat, and neats' tripes; Besides, for to warm all your noses, Great store of tobacco and pipes.
And there will be Sam the quack doctor, Of skill and profession he'll crack; And Jack who would fain be a soldier, But for a great hump on his back; And Tom in the streets, for his living, Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives; And two or three merry old women, That call "Mugs and doublers, wives! The cavers biv the chimlay reek, Begox! And now the Sandhill with the sad tidings rings, And the tubs of the taties are left to take care; Fish-women desert their crabs, lobsters, and lings, And each to the dead-house now runs like a hare.
Tyneside seem'd clad wiv bonny ha's, An' furnaces sae dunny; Wey this mun be what Bible ca's, 'The land of milk and honey! He's ne Volunteer, aw ken biv his wauk; And if he's outlandish, we'll ken biv his tauk: He's a lang sword ahint him, ye'll see'd when he turns: Ony luik at his fyece! Why there will be Peter the hangman, Who flogs the folks at the cart-tail, Au'd Bob, with his new sark and ruffle, Made out of an au'd keel sail!
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Unheeded I stole close beside them, To hear their discourse was my plan; I listen'd each word they were saying, When Lukey his courtship began. Geordy, smash! The dead-house they reach'd, where his Lordship they found, Pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath; The Coroner and Jury were seated around, Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death.
X Y, that bonny steed, Thou bangs them a' for pith an' speed, We never see'd his like, man! Such howlin, screamin rend the sky, All in confusion they did lie, With pain and sickness like to die, They wish'd they'd ne'er seen Sunderland.