Her name is Lizzie Liberty, And monie wooers has sweet Lizzie: She sings and trips along the plain, Free as the wind glides o'er the water; O bonny Lizzie Liberty!

Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

The Men o' France to her advance, And use all arts to gain her favour; And Spaniards bold, with hearts of gold, Vow, if she's to be had, they'll have her; And daft John Bull, that bleth'ring cull, About the nymph sets up his chatter; O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!

Now a' the lads wad fain be at her.

Braw Donald Scot steps forth, I wot, To win the smiles of this fair lady, And Irish Pat has promis'd that, To woo the nymph he'll aye be steady: Whole Patriot Bands, of foreign lands, Do fyke and fistle sair about her: O bonnie Lizzie Liberty!

Nae happiness is felt without her.

THE NEW FISH MARKET.

BY WILLIAM MIDFORD.

Tune--"Scots come o'er the Border."

March! march to the Dandy Fish Market!

See what our Corporation's done for you, By pillars and paling so n.o.bly surrounded, And your stone tables all standing before you.

Where's there a river so fam'd in the nation?

Where's the bold tars that so well grace their station?

Coals, fish, and grindstones--we'll through the world bark it-- And now we ha'e gotten a bonny Fish Market, March! march, &c.

Oh! did the fish ken they'd be caged like a birdie, (Euphy, the Queen, singing, "Maw canny Geordie,") They'd pop out their heads then, should ye only watch them, And call on the fishermen sharply to catch them.

March! march, &c.

Yet all isn't right, tho'--in time you may hear it; One week is past, and but one cart's come near it: The loons above stairs preconcerted the order, And hinder poor bodies to hawk through the border.

March! march, &c.

Gan to the coast--where the fishermen's weeding-- Gan to the fells--where the cuddies are feeding-- Gan to h.e.l.l's kitchen--should ye have occasion-- Ye'll see hizzies drinking through spite and vexation.

March! march, &c.

Where's Madgie's troops that so well could shout oysters?

Gone to a convent or nunnery cloisters!

Where's the wee shop that once held Jack the Barber?

Gone to make room for the fish brought to harbour!

March! march, &c.

Then hie to the Custom-house, add to your pleasures, Now you're well cover'd, so toom the new measures: It ne'er will be finish'd, I'll wager a groat, Till they've cut a ca.n.a.l to admit five-men boats!

March! march, &c.

A NEW YEAR'S CAROL,

_For the Fishwives of Newcastle._

Tune--"Chevy Chase."

G.o.d prosper long our n.o.ble king, Our lives and safeties all!

A woeful ditty we may sing On ev'ry fishwife's stall.

Good Magistrates, it were a sin That we should _rail_ at you; Altho' the _plaice_ you've put us in, Is _grating_ to our view.

If _crab_-bed looks we should put on, Or _flounder_ in a pet, Each fishwife's _tub_ would, very soon, Be in the _kit_-ty set.

Sure we are not such simple _soles_, Though in your legal _net_, But we will haul you _o'er the coals_, And play _hot c.o.c.kles_ yet.

The iron ring in which we're shut, To make the _gudgeons_ stare, Will not, says ev'ry scolding s.l.u.t, With _her-ring_ e'er compare.

Then ev'ry night, that duly falls, _Fresh water_ may be seen All floating round our seats and stalls, As if we _had-ducks_ been.

But thus _sh.e.l.l'd_ in, as now we are, Within our corp'rate bounds, Altho' we may not curse and swear, We still may cry, _Cod-sounds_!

Let gentle people _carp_ their fill, At us, our sprees and pranks; For tho' we're now turn'd off the _Hill_, Themselves may lose their _Banks_.

JESMOND MILL.

BY PHIL. HODGSON.

To sing of some nymph in her cot, Each bard will oft flourish his quill: I'm glad it has fall'n to my lot, To celebrate Jesmond Mill.

When Spring hither winds her career, Our trees and our hedges to fill, Vast oceans of verdure appear, To charm you at Jesmond Mill.

To plant every rural delight, Mere Nature has lavish'd her skill; Here fragrant soft breezes unite, To wanton round Jesmond Mill.

When silence each evening here dwells, The birds in their coverts all still; No music in sweetness excels The clacking of Jesmond Mill.

Reclin'd by the verge of the stream, Or stretch'd on the side of the hill, I'm never in want of a theme, While learning at Jesmond Mill.

Sure Venus some plot has design'd, Or why is my heart never still, Whenever it pops in my mind, To wander near Jesmond Mill.

My object, ye swains, you will guess, If ever in love you had skill; And now I will frankly confess, 'Tis--Jenny of Jesmond Mill.

TOMMY THOMPSON.

Author of 'Canny Newca.s.sel,' 'Jemmy Joneson's Whurry,' &c.