Then the Ox was beheaded, and held up to view, As if he'd done something of Cato-street hue: A soldier that made his appearance did rue, On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Then with squeezing and tearing began the dispute; Some held by the Pant, and some grappled the spout, Till as drunk as a lord, and as wise as a brute, At this swine-feeding jollification.

They drank out of hats and old shoes, very keen, The fights they went round, quite amusing the scene; While some, in mistake, drank "Success to the Queen!"

On George the Fourth's Coronation.

The battle grew hot, as they flung round the beef, Disgusted, they sought no Commander in chief; The fires they demolish'd, while brick-bats and beef Flew like rockets, in mad desperation.

The Butchers, now thinking their lives very sweet, Soon threw down their gullies, and beat a retreat; Not wishing to die, just like dogs, in the street, On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Upon the Sandhill, where the fountain ran wine, The keelmen, quite eager to taste of the vine, Had the Crown taken down, which was thrown in the Tyne, So fix'd was their determination.

There one, tho' stripp'd naked, so great was his drouth, Made a new-fashion'd sun-dial, pointing due south, When the ladies at five of the clock set their mouth, On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Among the arrivals at Mansion-house gates, Were the bones of the oxen, the spits, and the grates, With a keelman, in petticoats, scratching his pate, For a suit from our rich Corporation.

Had the _Den_[24] been but open, the people might say, For Kill-pudding Joe, and the burdies of prey,[25]

This sunshine would brought a fine "harvest of hay,"

On George the Fourth's Coronation.

Footnote 23: Referring to the Public Meeting on the Town Moor, on the 11th Oct. 1819, where it was supposed, 100,000 were a.s.sembled, to take into consideration the proceedings at Manchester.

Footnote 24: The House of Correction.

Footnote 25: Police Officers.

NEWCASTLE IN AN UPROAR;

_Or, George the Fourth's Coronation._

Air--"Come under my Plaidie."

O Jockey, my friend, mun, how last you this evening?

Come in, crook your hough, and let's hear all your news; It appears to me you have been tramping this morning, I see by the dust that's so thick on your shoes.

I have been a tramping, I've been at Newcastle, All the things I have seen there my memory can't bring; The folks from all parts have rais'd such a noration, About the Coronation of Geordy the King.

The first thing I saw was two fires for the bullocks-- They hung them both down as it struck twelve at night; But lang ere day-light was come in on the morning, Both stuffing and 'tatoes were burnt in their kites.

They turn'd them on spite until burnt like two cinders, And cut them both up about twelve of the day; As they lay on the stages, they smok'd just like tinder, And look'd like two muck-heaps, the people did say.

Then the carvers set to with knives cutting and sc.r.a.ping, And lumps of fat beef with such vengeance were strew'd, I dare say they thought that the folks were all gaping, And believ'd they were feeding a swine mult.i.tude.

But the stuff they threw out put the folks in a fury, Both stones and brick-bats they s.n.a.t.c.h'd up in a rage; And a radical troop, thus equipp'd in a hurry, With vengeance bang'd carvers and beef off the stage.

For the folks being determin'd, the beef would not handle, Nor gobble it up like a stye full of swine; For their conscience did whisper it would be a scandal: So the stuff was refus'd by the sons of the Tyne.

The next thing I saw was a British young sailor, He pull'd the crown down from the top of the crane; Although with brick bats he got many a nailor, Yet he stuck up a label concerning the Queen.

This bill being put up set the crowd in a motion, They gave three times three when first it was seen; And loudly did praise the brave tars of the ocean, Who fought in defence of their much injur'd Queen.

These things being done, it rais'd such a durdem, The stones and the brick-bats flew up like a cloud: A poor Tyne Cossack, that belong'd to Tom Burdon, Was near crush'd to death as he fought with the crowd.

That day in the town was heard no sound of bugles, And Bold Archy, he too was ne'er seen iv a'; For if that but once he had brought down the Noodles, They'd been trod under foot like a bundle of straw.

For so bold are the men about canny Newca.s.sel, No injustice they'll suffer when a.s.sembled a': If the King had been there he'd ne'er worn his gold ta.s.sel, And as to being crown'd, that would ne'er done iv a'.

The things that were flying appear'd like a battle; So, afraid of being fell'd, as I stood by the folks, I on shankie nagie away straight did rattle, To drag down the street the black bones of the ox.

When I came to the Sandhill my eyes I got open'd, I saw something standing which brightly did shine; A large wooden Pant, and a crown on the top o't: When I came to look close it was running red wine,

The folk that were round it appear'd to be growling And fighting amongst it like so many cats; While others I saw among mud and dirt rolling, And drinking the wine out of old lousy hats.

Thinks I to myself, this is all botheration, It is but a pretext, I know by their scheme, To pump out what's left of the wealth of the nation, To swell the fat bags of the Clergy and King.

The next thing I saw that took up my attention, Was a keelman quite nak'd! he'd no breeches iv a'; Some said he, for fighting, deserv'd well a pension, But I think that he ought to've been tried by the law.

The wives that were running fell o'er, tappy lappy, Town serjeants the keelmen did pelt well with glare; And swore, if they could but catch Tripy and Cappy, They would tear them to rags at the end of the war.

Then I by this time nigh got into a quarrel; I argued, but could not the battle decide; So dreading some person might tear my apparel, I took my departure unto the Quayside.

In going down the Quay there was such a crushing-- I met with a man of the name of Tom Dale, He said, into Sandgate the folks were all pushing, For the Pant on the hill there was running strong ale.

When I got to Sandgate I could not help laughing, The la.s.ses were running about with the swipes; And old wives that fell in the gutter were scruffling, Ne'er minded, but smok'd on their old cutty pipes.

I next took my journey as for as the 'Spital, To see if ought curious was there to be seen; But I think that from Sandgate it differed little, For the folks were all drinking the health of the Queen.

I went to an alehouse, and nearly got fuddled, For by walking about sae my legs were quite lame; So on my old pins then away I straight toddled, And ne'er look'd behind me, but tramp'd away hame.

At Newcastle there have been both horse and boat races, I have droll things to tell you, if I had but time; But having to call at some more bits of places, On some other day I will finish my rhyme.

CORONATION DAY AT NEWCASTLE.

Upon the nineteenth of July The Castle guns did rend the sky, St. Nicholas' bells did briskly ring, And George the Fourth was crown'd our king; But those possess'd of feelings fine Will ne'er forget that day on Tyne.

For days, within the 'Spital green, In ribbands deck'd were Bullocks seen, And on their horns a royal crown, To mock some Cuckold of renown: And all, whose thoughts agree with mine, Will say he's nearer Thames than Tyne.

Humanity, with pitying gaze, Beheld the victims fondly graze Round the infernal furnace pile, Where one was shortly doom'd to broil, Purpos'd to feed the humble swine That dwelt upon the banks of Tyne.

Blush, ye great Rulers of the town, Behold your nauseous, loathsome boon!

See men, with manners more discreet, Disgusted, spurn your beastly treat!

And know, all you who term us swine, That Reason rules the sons of Tyne.

Give heed to this, Worshipful Mayor, Though we're reduc'd by taxes bare, Our British bosoms still contain Hearts sound as his with golden chain!

May Freedom's rays, which brighter shine, Adorn each manly breast on Tyne.

It adds but little to your praise, To see your lavish, wasteful ways, To see a keelman, from his huddock, Within your wine-trough wash his b.u.t.tock, Which ne'er before was drench'd in wine, But often plung'd in coaly Tyne.

What did your wilful waste avail?

Your fountains running wine and ale?

The bronzed dome, the glitt'ring crown, Torn by an enrag'd people down?

Who cheering hail'd Queen Caroline, Borne by the blooming fair on Tyne.

What would an untaught Heathen said, To see such brutal scenes display'd?

Is this the land, he would reply, That teaches Christianity?

Such might suit yon wild sh.o.r.es of mine, But shame Great Britain and the Tyne.