The money wasted on the ground, Had it been wisely dealt around Amongst the needy poor, half-starv'd-- A thousand pounds would thousands serv'd; Extravagance was their design, Who rul'd Newcastle upon Tyne.

CORONATION THURSDAY--JULY 19, 1821.

Being the Third[26] Epistle from Bob Fudge to his Cousin Bob in the Country.

Dear Bob--A sad outlaw at length I'm become, The Tories despise me; the Whigs glump and gloom, And scowl as they pa.s.s, which is something uncivil, And the Radicals treat me as I would the devil; And threaten, the next time I make my appearance, To scourge me completely, with Christian forbearance.

This threat from a party, who ever would bawl For liberal discussion, is worst of them all; As my writings, I'm sure, must be wond'rous offences, When such men are talking about consequences.

But whether the head of the Noodles appear, Or Lambton, or Typo, with sword or with spear, To blunt their sharp edges at once on my n.o.b, I'm determin'd to write to my own dearest Bob.

The Pedlar's descendant[27] may boast in the field, And the Earl of the North with reluctancy yield, While Cartwright an excess of freedom may claim-- Perhaps they're all right, since they all are to blame.

The Radicals want more than reason would crave, They all would be kings, without ever a slave; And that, my dear Bob, you know never can be-- And as for the Whigs, they love stones more than me.

I dare not maliciously think of the Tory, No envy his pudding, the Englishman's glory-- He's in, and he's right, and his place is worth keeping, No wonder he wishes John still to be sleeping;-- And though from stage coffers his wages be taken, He'd better be paid than the office forsaken.

Without Kings and Clergy, and Commons and Peers, Together the people would be by the ears; Equal rights, equal liberties, who would not brave, Lest an excess of Freedom prove Liberty's grave.

We've the use of our fingers, our tongues, and our eyes, How then are we fetter'd? the good Tory cries; And as for the taxes, Judge Bayley can prove They're the source of our welfare, the things we should love.

Since the days of king Solomon, that wise man of yore, All kings have had wisdom and riches in store: And Britain, sublimely renowned in story, Has become of the world th' admiration and glory, By the help of our kings, and prime minister Pitt, Whose names are a match for the Radicals yet.

But stop--to amuse thee I'll give a relation Of the sights I beheld at the King's Coronation; Which partly convinc'd me that infidels reign, Since the head of the church met such hoggish disdain.

The morning was fine when the boats came in sight, And cannons re-echoed the Tories' delight-- Sandgate heroes huzza'd, till the news, so provoking, Convinc'd them the watermen only were joking.

"What a d--n'd shame! (cried Archy) such prizes, and never A man lying breathless, or drown'd in the river!

No squabbling, no fighting, no boats sunk--d.a.m.nation!

They're fit men to row at a King's Coronation!"

Then from the Quayside to the Sandhill I wander'd, And smil'd to behold money foolishly squander'd: A pant rising splendidly, gilded and crown'd, To run with good wine, in the centre was found, And fronting St. Nicholas a black roasted beast, And another in Spital-field, bespoke a grand feast.

Three pants to run ale--'twas a glorious sight!

Two cranes and two scaffolds--the butchers' delight.

From Church now the Mayor and his company ride, And Bab with the Queen, at the foot of the Side, Hoisted high on a pole, with a crown on her head-- (And her effigy more than the devil they dread) The crowd was so dense, and the shouts so astounding, And nothing but Radical whiskers surrounding; Which made it becoming to bow to the Queen, Though a d.a.m.nable blot on their loyalty, I ween!

Releas'd, they drove gently, their plans to fulfill, By drinking the king's health upon the Sandhill.

But, to their misfortune, round where it was plac'd, The crowd was so furious, no Tory could face't; And high on the gilded dome stood a rude fellow, With the crown on his head!--people said he was mellow; But I took him to be some base Radical body, Who wish'd folk to think that the King was a noddy, For at the mock gestures of kingly demeanour, The people bawl'd loudly, and bow'd to his honour; While many among them cried, Pull the knave down!

Such a bad drunken fellow's not fit for a crown!

He's as good, quoth a keelman, and blew like a porpus, As the London Mogul, who can drink, wh--e, and rob us.

So near was the danger, the Mayor swoon'd away; But Archy, more bold as they pranc'd round the fray, To his comrades cried softly, (but not till past catching) "What treasonable stuff those d.a.m.n'd Radicals are hatching!

D'ye see what a mess they have made of the crown, Go call out the soldiers to pull yon knave down."

"Drive on," quoth the Mayor, by this time come about, "There's no time to talk while the Philistines are out."

More furious grew Archy, as nearer he drew The den of corruption, with th' Noodles in view.

"Fetch the soldiers, I say--let the streets swim with blood!

See the crown is insulted, and all that is good, When erected this morn, what a sight to behold!

'Twas velvet and ermine, and cover'd with gold!

'Tis sacrilege! treason! h.e.l.l groans at the sight!

Fetch the soldiers, and put the mad rabble to flight: We crown'd it, and form'd it to dribble with wine, That the King's health, when drank, might be cheer'd by the swine; And shall we be bet while we've soldiers to guard us?

No, call them out quickly--the King will reward us."

As he finish'd the sentence, the crown got a fall, And rapt'rous delight animated them all.

What savage barbarians those English are grown, To laugh at the fall of a beautiful crown!

'Twas time for the Mayor and poor Archy to fly From the radical scene to the loyal pig-stye.

To St. Nicholas' Square then I posted away, Where Typo's high window peep'd over the fray; And such an Ox roasting was there to be seen!

'Twas a bad loyal meeting for all but the Queen.

The crowd was immense, and their spirits were high, To honour his Majesty no one durst try.

The scaffold with tipstaves and botchers was clad, Who blarnied poor folks what fine morsels they had; And holding the head up, began to huzza, But a volley of hisses and groans drown'd their _jaw_: Though, Thistlewood like, it was something uncivil, For the head wearing horns was as black as the devil.

St. Nicholas peal'd out as the hisses began, And seem'd to say, "Loyal bucks, do what you can!"

As fast as the butchers the collops threw out, The people return'd them with many a shout; And many a fat lump loyal whiskers besmear'd, Till brick-bats and fat chops the slaughter stage clear'd.

A crown that look'd lovely, and honoured the crane, Call'd forth, beyond measure, the public disdain; The brick-flying tempest redoubled its terror, And many a poor Tory's heart trembled with horror.

An Officer[28] vent'ring imprudently near, Receiv'd the same fate as the Coach in the rear; So high was the Radical sentiment tow'ring, That public expression was past all enduring.

In vain flew the bricks, save to knock people down, For the Tories were fled, and too fast was the crown; At length a bold Tar, in the midst of the fray, Mounted swiftly, and tore the gilt bauble away; And put in its place, which was fair to be seen, "The Queen that Jack lov'd," and cried, "G.o.d save the Queen!"

Then off went their hats, and abroad went the roar, And shook the gla.s.s windows along the Tyne sh.o.r.e.

The mangled black carrion was knock'd from the stage, And dragg'd round the town with republican rage, Till deposited safely i' th' Mansion-house yard, Where Archy Mac Syc. is the master black-guard; From whence, in accordance with Archibald's wish, It was sunk in the Tyne--to make broth for the fish.

So that Radical bodies were highly to blame, When they sung their pig sonnets, and cried out, "For shame!"

A few drunken fellows the ale-pants surrounded, And fought for the _wish-wash_ till nearly half-drowned.

But when the wine dribbled beneath the Exchange, The people were furious, and sought for revenge, By drinking "The Queen!" with astounding delight, While the fine folks above them grew pale at the sight.

But to see a nak'd man holding fast by the spout, Made the sanctified ladies huzza, clap, and shout.

"Fight away, pigs, (quoth Archy) you make us fine fun!"

But when the pant suffer'd he alter'd his tune.

In Spital-field loyalty had no more boast, For the Queen rul'd the heart, and the people the roast.

Poor Anvil[29] disgrac'd himself, some people say, To ask the Mayor leave on the Race-ground to pray; In fact, after such a deed I should not wonder But they'll sneak and ask leave, till oblig'd to knock under.

What a "punch"-loving people! in less than an hour, To see Lambton's horse, they were all on the Moor; But vex'd that their favourite's courser should lose, They car'd not to stay till the Races might close.

Returning at length, like a tempest they came, Which bursts upon Cheviot, and sets it on flame And levell'd the pants with the spoil of the day, While a Radical gave them a touch of his lay.

In vain the peace-officers handled their staves, And entreated the crowd to submit like good slaves; 'Twas the Head of the Church who created the day, And salvation attended a loyal display!

But pa.s.sive obedience was basely rejected, And the Head of the Church very little respected; Which made Archy again for the horse soldiers shout, So anxious he seem'd for a Manchester rout: But, thank their good stars, they go free from the labour Of drawing their whittles to hamstring a neighbour.

In its socket was sinking the Radical taper, Ere snugly the mighty ones sat down to supper.

It cost them two thousand, I mean th' Corporation!

What a round sum, dear Bob, for a King's Coronation!

But surely I need not the money begrudge, For the sight charm'd the heart of thy cousin,

BOB FUDGE.

Footnote 26: The first Epistle, "Radical Monday," a satirical description of the Town Moor great Meeting on the 11th Oct. 1819.--The second Epistle (unpublished) "Radical Thursday and Whig Wednesday," on the public Meetings held in Newcastle, on those days, for addressing the Queen, &c.

Footnote 27: Lord Castlereagh.

Footnote 28: A military Officer on horseback in the crowd at the time the Mail Coach pa.s.sed, decorated in honour of the Coronation, was, together with the Coach, pelted by the populace.

Footnote 29: An Independent Methodist Preacher, who, forgetting the commission of his Divine Master to preach the Gospel, even on the highways and hedges, applied in vain to the Mayor, for leave for himself and brethren to hold a camp meeting on the Town Moor. The worthy Magistrate objected, on the ground of injuring the _interests_ of the "church as by law established;" or, more properly speaking, the interests of the established Clergy. Anvil is also celebrated by Bob Fudge, in his First Epistle, ent.i.tled "Radical Monday," as one of the orators at the Town Moor great meeting on the 11th October, 1819.