HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.

Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed, An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed; Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw c.u.m To the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun.

Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times, But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes.

Smash, Geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes, An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.

Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water, 'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a Brig wad be better; So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation, The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation: Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back, So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack.

'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper, Tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper.

How! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang, Dash! a fellow like me may st.i.te myek up a sang, Or some such like thing--just to myek a bit fun: So it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun.

Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born-- But what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye the form O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot, When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.

Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd-- When aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd; On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed, To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed.

Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks, Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links, Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river, Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.

Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length, To the bottom of which a foundation of strength Is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen, Then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen.

Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?-- Wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad?

Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth?

But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth.

Aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it, And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit.

A! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great; For to what lad o' Shields wad the thought not be sweet; To cross ower the water without danger or fear, As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear.

When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger, But the hazard is wa.r.s.e tiv a man 'at's a stranger.

While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives, Were in very great danger o' losing wor lives.

But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters, On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats, Or ony thing else on the water that floats.

At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a far safer plan, And would save mony lives--contradict it whe can!

Besides, ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better For the canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water, To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street, And when they're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet; Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense, By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence, Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry.

Now, ye blithe lads o' Shields, let it be a' yor glory, To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air, Then we'll hae to soom amang steam-boats ne mair: Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark, They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark; But catch me gaun ony mair near them again-- If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

BY HENRY ROBSON.

The Baff-week is o'er--no repining-- Pay-Sat.u.r.day's swift on the wing; At length the blithe morning comes shining, When kelter makes colliers sing.

'Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary, The birds carol sweet on the spray; Now coal-working lads, trim and airy, To Newcastle town hie away.

Those married jog on with their hinnies, Their canny bairns go by their side; The daughters keep teazing their minnies For new cloaths to keep up their pride: They plead--Easter Sunday does fear them, For if they've got nothing that's new, The Crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them; Oh then, what a sight for to view!

The young men, full blithesome and jolly, March forward, all decently clad; Some lilting up "Cut-and-dry, Dolly,"

Some singing "The bonny Pit Lad:"

The pranks that were play'd at last binding Engage some in humourous chat; Some halt by the way-side on finding Primroses to place in their hat.

Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and d.i.c.k Marley, Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown, In one jolly squad set off early From Benwell to Newcastle town: Such hewers as they (none need doubt it) Ne'er handled a shovel or pick; In high or low seam they could suit it, In regions next door to Old Nick.

Some went to buy hats and new jackets, And others to see a bit fun; And some wanted leather and tackets, To cobble their canny pit shoon: Save the ribbon d.i.c.k's dear had requested, (Aware he had plenty of c.h.i.n.k) There was no other care him infested, Unless 'twere his care for good drink.

In the morning the dry man advances To purl-shop to toss off a gill.

Ne'er dreading the ills and mischances Attending on those who sit still: The drink, Reason's monitor quelling, Inflames both the brain and the eyes; The enchantment commenc'd, there's no telling When care-drowning tipplers will rise.

O MALT! we acknowledge thy powers, What good and what ill dost thou brew!

Our good friend in moderate hours-- Our enemy when we get fu': Could thy vot'ries avoid the fell furies So often awaken'd by thee, We should seldom need Judges or Juries To send folk to Tyburn tree!

At length in Newcastle they centre-- In Hardy's,[5] a house much renown'd, The jovial company enter, Where stores of good liquor abound: As quick as the servants could fill it, (Till emptied were quarts half a score) With heart-burning thirst down they swill it, And thump on the table for more.

While thus in fine cue they are seated, Young c.o.c.k-fighting Ned, from the Fell,[6]

Peep'd in--his "How d'ye?" repeated, And hop'd they were all very well; He swore he was pleased to see them-- One rose up to make him sit down, And join in good fellowship wi' them-- For him they would spend their last crown.

The liquor beginning to warm them, In friendship the closer they knit, And tell and hear jokes--and to charm them, Comes Robin from Denton-bourn pit; An odd, witty, comical fellow, At either a jest or a tale, Especially when he was mellow With drinking stout Newcastle ale.

With bousing, and laughing, and smoking, The time slippeth swiftly away, And while they are ranting and joking, The church-clock proclaims it mid-day; And now for black-puddings, long measure, They go to Tib Trollibag's stand, And away bear the glossy rich treasure, With joy, like curl'd bugles in hand.

And now a choice house they agreed on, Not far from the head of the Quay: Where they their black puddings might feed on, And spend the remains of the day; Where pipers and fiddlers resorted, To pick up the straggling pence, And where the pit-lads often sported Their money at fiddle and dance.

Blind Willie[7] the fiddler sat sc.r.a.ping In corner just as they went in: Some Willington callants were shaking Their feet to his musical din: Jack vow'd he would have some fine cap'ring, As soon as their dinner was o'er, With the la.s.sie that wore the white ap.r.o.n, Now reeling about on the floor.

Their hungry stomachs being eased, And gullets well clear'd with a gla.s.s, Jack rose from the table and seized The hand of the frolicsome la.s.s.

"Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me-- To ask thee to dance aw myek free?"

She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee-- Now fiddler play--"Jigging for me."

The damsel displays all her graces, The collier exerts all his power, They caper in circling paces, And _set_ at each end of the floor: He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle-- At turns of the music so sweet, He makes such a thundering brattle, The floor seems afraid of his feet.

This couple being seated, rose Bob up, He wish'd to make one in a jig; But a Willington lad set his gob up-- O'er him there should none "run the rig;"

For now 'twas his turn for a caper, And he would dance first as he'd rose; Bob's pa.s.sion beginning to vapour, He twisted his opponent's nose.

The Willington lads, for their Franky, Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed; And those in behalf of Bob Cranky Sprung forward--for now there was need.

Bob canted the form, with a kevel, As he was exerting his strength; But he got on the lug such a nevel, That down came he, all his long length.

Tom Brown, from behind the long table, Impatient to join in the fight, Made a spring, some rude foe to disable, For he was a man of some might: Misfortune, alas! was attending, An accident fill'd him with fear; An old rusty nail his flesh rending, Oblig'd him to slink in the rear.

When sober, a mild man was Marley, More apt to join friends than make foes; But rais'd by the juice of the barley, He put in some sobbling blows.

And c.o.c.k-fighting Ned was their Hector, A courageous fellow and stout-- He stood their bold friend and protector, And thump'd the opponents about.

All hand-over-head, topsy-turvy, They struck with fists, elbows, and feet; A Willington callant, call'd Gurvy, Was top-tails tost over the seat: Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire, And what is a serio-farce, Poor Robin was cast on the fire, His breeks torn and burnt off his a--e.

Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches?

Disaster now makes thee quite mum; Thy wit could not save the good breeches That mencefully cover'd thy b.u.m: To some slop-shop now thou should be trudging, And lug out more squandering coins; For now 'tis too late to be grudging-- Thou cannot go home with bare groins.

How the war-faring companies parted, The Muse chuseth not to proclaim; But 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted, They quietly went--"toddling hame."

Now ye collier callants, so clever, Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear, Beware, when you fuddle together, Of making too free with strong beer.

1805.