They sang and drank, and drank and sang, till time was wearing late, sir, Nor ever thought a moment what that night might be their fate, sir: Near eleven o'clock they sallied out, the night being rather cold, sir, ('Twas on the eighth of April, as we hear the story told, sir,) They felt it not, for friendship's gla.s.s had warm'd their hearts within, sir, By drinking brandy, rum, or wine, or eke good Holland's gin, sir.

Watson and Ingram both inclin'd to be a little merry, sir, The others left--to Dean-street they proceeded in a hurry, sir; When Hedges he sung "Fly not yet," why haste ye so away, sir?

And Ingram promptly answer'd him, by calling out, "Oh! stay," sir.

The _Verges_ of the night were rous'd--demanded why such clatter, sir, What's all this hound-like noise about? come tell us what's the matter, sir.

Then Walton said, "They're friends of mine, and strangers in the place, sir;"

But this they disregarded quite, and star'd them in the face, sir.

Now Halbert cried out, "Seize them, Ross!--to the watch-house they shall go, sir; And Master Carr will _Kitty_ them, old friendship for to shew, sir."

Then to the watch-house they were ta'en triumphantly along, sir, For nothing, as the trial prov'd, but singing Tom Moor's song, sir.

Arriving at the watch-house, where Dogberry sat in state, sir, The watchmen made false charges out, and did so glibly prate, sir; Tom cried out, "What d'ye think of this? No defence will I hear, sir, _My servants_ I will listen to, they've made it plain appear, sir.

Off to the _Kitty_ with them, watch, nor grant one short respite, sirs, But see that they're completely fast in durance all the night, sirs."

Ye watchmen, for the future, remember Scarlett's dressing, sirs, The real sound drubbing you've receiv'd may be esteem'd a blessing, sirs: And should you e'er repeat such acts, vile tyrants as you've been, sirs, Scarlett against you may appear, and trim you black and green, sirs.

Therefore a warning take in time, leave your infernal tricks, sirs, As you ere this must clearly find, you've kick'd against the p.r.i.c.ks, sirs.

THE ALARM!![21]

_Or, Lord Fauconberg's March._

Tune--"Chevy Chace."

G.o.d prosper long our n.o.ble king, And n.o.blemen also, Who valiantly, with sword in hand, Do guard us from each foe.

No sooner did Lord Fauconberg, With heart undaunted hear, Than news to Gotham had been brought, Which caus'd our Mayor to fear,

Than up he rose, with eyes on fire, Most dreadful to the view: "To arms! to arms!" aloud he cried, And forth his falchion drew.

To arms! to arms! full long and sore The rattling drums did beat: To arms in haste each soldier flies, And scours through every street.

The women shriek and wring their hands, Their children weep around; While some, more wise, fast bolt their doors, And hide them under ground.

The French are at our gates! they cry, And we shall all be slain; For Dumourier is at their head, And that arch-traitor Paine.

In haste drawn up, in fair array, Our Yorkshire Guards are seen; And mounted on a jet black steed, Lord Fauconberg I ween.

And now he gave the word to march, And valiant foremost rode: And now he bounds from side to side-- 'Twas well the streets were broad.

From Newgate down to the Broad-chare They march'd with might and main; Then gallantly they turn'd them round, And so march'd up again.

Now fill a b.u.mper to the brim, And drink to Gotham's Mayor; And when again he hears such news, May Fauconberg be there.

Footnote 21: On the commencement of the impress service, in March, 1793, considerable riots took place at Shields, which were represented, at Newcastle, in a thousand terrific shapes; and a false alarm having been given at the Mansion house, the drums of the York Militia beat to arms; Lord Fauconberg marched that regiment to the house of Rendezvous in the Broad-chare, and then marched back again.

THE HALF-DROWNED SKIPPER.

Air--"Chapter of Donkies."

T'other day up the water aw went in a boat, Aw brush'd up my trowsers, put on my new coat; We steer'd up wor boat 'lang side of a keel, And the luiks o' the Skipper wad frighten'd the Deil.

Fol de rol, &c.

So thinks aw, wi' the keel we'll gan a' the way, And hear a few words that the skipper may say, For aw was sure if ought in the keel was deun wrang, The Skipper wad curse, aye, and call every man.

Fol de rol, &c.

Now we'd just getten up to the fam'd Skinners' Burn, When the Skipper bawl'd out that the keel was to turn: Wye he shouted and roar'd like a man hung in chains, And swore by the keel he would knock out their brains.

Fol de rol, &c.

The little Pee-dee jump'd about on the deck, And the Skipper roar'd out he wad sure smash his neck; "What for?" says the Pee-dee, "can one not speak a word?"-- So he gav him a kick--knock'd him plump owerboard.

Fol de rol, &c.

There was nyen o' the bullies e'er lost a bit time, But flung their great keel-huiks splash into the Tyne; They brought up the Pee-dee just like a duck'd craw, And the Skipper, wi' laughin', fell smack ower an' a'.

Fol de rol, &c.

Now the keelmen being tired of their Skipper se brave, Not one e'er attempted his life for to save; They hoisted their sail, and we saw no more, But the half-drown'd Skipper was swimming ash.o.r.e.

Fol de rol, &c.

THE NEWCASTLE WORTHIES.

BY WM. ARMSTRONG.

Air--"We've aye been provided for."

The praises o' Newca.s.sel aw've lang wish'd to tell, But now then aw'm determin'd to ha'e a right good spell, An' shew what noted _kiddies_ frae Newca.s.sel town hes flit, For it's a'wis been a canny place, an' sae will it yet.

A chep, they call'd him Scott, he liev'd on the banks o' Tyne, Had a son, that i' the Government he wanted to shine: By degrees the youth he rose up, now Lord Chancellor does sit, And he's fill'd his place reet brawly, aye an' sae will he yet.

Of a' the fine Engravers that grace fair Lunnen toon, Wor Tom Ransom and Bill Harvey bang a' that's up or doon: The praises frae the 'Cademy they constantly do get; For their pieces they've got medals, aye an' sae will they yet.

For boxing tee, the Lunnen cheps we'll thresh them i' their turns; Ony see what science he has lairnt--that noted chep, Jem Burns: Jem Wallace tee, wor champion, how Tommy Dunn he hit, But they both good ones ever were, an' sae will they yet.

A vast mair cliver cheps we ha'e, o' some aw'll let ye knaw; For a strong man, whe could beat bold Airchy wi' his wondrous claw; When six men tuik him in a boat, her bottom suen he split, And the hiding that he ga'e them, they've not forgot it yet.

For fiddling tee, now whe is there wor Blind Willie can beat?

Or for dancing whe before Jack c.o.c.kson e'er could set their feet?

Cull Billy, only try him now, he'll cap ye wi' his wit; He's truly wond'rous, ever was, and sae will he yet.

Bob Cruddace, ah, poor soul! he's deed--he had a cliver knack O' kepping beer, aye three yards off, when he "parish'd the pack!"