BOB FUDGE'S POSTSCRIPT

_To his Account of the great Town Moor Meeting, on Monday, 11th October, 1819._

Since the Meeting, dear Bob, many things have come out, Which in Gotham have made a most d.a.m.nable rout: Mister Mayor at a trifle does not seem to stick, With the RADS[30] he's been playing _Sir Archy Mac Syc._-- While Sidmouth he cramm'd with some _Green Bag Supplies_, Which--alas! for his Worship--have turn'd out _all lies_!

_A stark staring Parson_,[31] to add to the store, A budget has sent to the n.o.ble Strathmore; And some other Arch Wag, whom all grace has forsook, A _thumper_ has palm'd on a great Northern Duke!

Sir Matt, too, so lately the pride of the Tyne, Against poor old Gotham did also combine; By supporting _Bold Archy's_ most libellous letter, He has added another strong link to the fetter!

The rivet he's clos'd, which no mortal can sever, And set now's the "_Bright Star of Heaton_" for ever!

But let him beware--for "_a Rod is in pickle_,"

Which, sooner or later, "_his Toby will tickle!_"

Both the Houses have rung with the direful alarms, Of the RADS on the Tyne and the Wear being in arms; 'Tis all a sly hoax--the _Alarmists alarming_, For there's not the least symptom of _Rising_ or _Arming_!

Footnote 30: The Radicals, or real Reformers.

Footnote 31: Parson Bl--k--n.

BLIND w.i.l.l.y'S FLIGHT.

Tune--"Betsey Baker."

A whirlwind, of a serious kind, Did o'er Newcastle blow, sir, Which gen'ral consternation spread About a month ago, sir: It caught Blind w.i.l.l.y in the street, He mounted like a feather; His friends, alarm'd, cried out, Alas!

Poor soul! he's gone for ever!

Fal de ral, &c.

But soon our Minstrel gay was seen, By thousands of the people, In rapid flight, swift as the kite Bound o'er Saint Nich'las' steeple; He pa.s.s'd the Shot Tower like a dart, Turn'd round by Askew's Key, sir, And down the Tyne he glided fine, And bolted off to sea, sir.

Fal de ral, &c.

'Tis said that he to London got, But was forc'd back to Shields, sir, And up to Swalwell, quick as thought, Was carried o'er the fields, sir.

Round Axwell Park our roving spark Was borne amidst the squall, sir, And swiftly pa.s.sing Elswick House, Reach'd c.o.c.k-o-lorum Hall, Sir.

Fal de ral, &c.

Thus tempest-toss'd, to Blagdon cross'd, And hail'd fam'd Heaton's Star, sir-- Then mounting high, did rapid fly As far as Prestwick Car, sir.

Newcastle next he hover'd o'er, Quite calmly in the air, sir, And landing at the Mansion House, He din'd with Mr. Mayor, Sir.

Fal de ral, &c.

THE NEW MARKETS.

Tune--"Canny Newca.s.sel."

Wey, hinnies, but this is a wonderful scene, Like some change that yen's seen iv a play-house; Whe ever wad thowt that the awd Major's dean Wad hae myed sic a capital weyhouse: Where the bra.s.s hez a' c.u.m fra nebody can tell, Some says yen thing and some says another-- But whe ever lent Grainger't aw knaw very well, That they mun have at least had a fother.

About Lunnen then divent ye myek sic a rout, For there's nowt there maw winkers ti dazzell; For a bell or a market there isent a doubt We can bang them at canny Newca.s.sel.

Wor grat.i.tude Grainger or somebody's arl'd, Yet still, mun, it mykes yen a' shuther, To see sic a crowd luiking after this warld Where the Nuns us'd ti luik for the tother.

But see yor awn interest, dinna be blind, Tyek a shop there whatever yor trade is; Genteeler company where can ye find Than wor butchers, green wives, and tripe ladies?

About Lunnen, &c.

Ti see the wires haggle about tripe and sheep-heads, Or washing their greens at a fountain, Where the bonny Nuns us'd to be telling their beads, And had nowt but their sins ti be counting; There the talented lords o' the cleaver and steel May be heard on that cla.s.sical grund, sir, Loudly chaunting the praise o' their mutton an' veal, Though they're losing a happney a pund, sir.

About Lunnen, &c.

When them queer c.o.c.kney folk c.u.m stravagin this way (Though aw've lang thowt we'd getten aboon them) They'll certainly now hae the mense just to say, That we've clapt an extinguisher on them: It's ne use contending, they just may shut up, For it's us can astonish the stranger; They may brag o' their Lords an' their awd King ti boot, What's the use on't?--they haven't a Grainger.

About Lunnen, &c.

THE CHANGES ON THE TYNE.

Tune--"Mitford Galloway."

I'll sing you a bit of a ditty, I hope you will not think it lang, At least if it tires your patience, I'll verra suin shorten my sang; It's all about comical changes, And new-fangled things on the Tyne, I've witness'd since aw was a skipper, And that isn't verra lang syne.

CHORUS.

These are the days of improvement, We're a' gettin wiser, you see, The skuilmaister's getting abroad, And he'll finish us off to a tee.

Baith sides of the Tyne, aw remember, Were cover'd wi' bonny green fields, But now there is nought but big furnaces Down frae Newcastle to Shields; And what wi' their sulphur and brimstone, Their vapour, their smoke, and their steam, The gra.s.s is all gaen, and the farmers Can nowther get b.u.t.ter or cream.

These are the days, &c.

For making their salts and their soda, They formerly us'd a kail-pot, With an awd-fashion'd bit of a chimley They were quite satisfied wi' their lot; But now Anty Clapham, the Quaker, Has fill'd a' the folks wi' surprise, For he's lately built up a lang chimley, Within a few feet o' the skies!

These are the days, &c.

There's Losh's big chimley at Walker, Its very awn height makes it shake, And if Cookson's again tumble ower, It will make a new quay for the Slake; To talk of your fine foreign pillars, It's enough for to make a man sick, The great tower of _Babble_ compar'd Wi' wor chimleys is nowt but a stick.

These are the days, &c.

For three-pence to Shields aw remember In a wherry the folk us'd to gan, And that was consider'd by many A very respectable plan; But now we've got sixpenny steamers, A stylish conveyance, I'm sure, For there you've a tune on the fiddle, And a lie on the sands for an hour.

These are the days, &c.

Then ower the land we'd a whiskey, Which went twice or thrice in the day, Which us'd to take all the fine gentry, And quite in an elegant way; But now the awd whiskey's neglected, And nothing but coaches suit us, Lord help us! there's nothing gans now But a hyke in the new omnibus.

These are the days, &c.

At one time wor ships were all loaded Sae canny and snug by the keels, And then a' wor maisters made money, And keelmen were a' happy chiels; But now your fine drops de the business!

Lord bless us! aw never saw such, Though some of wor owners aw's freeten'd Hev getten a _drop_ ower much.

These are the days, &c.

And then an aud horse brought a waggon A' the way frae the pits to the staith, But now it appears pretty certain, They'll verra suin dee without baith, For now their fine steam locomotives A' other inventions excels, Aw've only to huik on the waggons, And they'll bring a ship-load down their sels.

These are the days, &c.