"Success to our Market!"--Huzza and Huzza!

No longer let London and Liverpool tell us, Their towns boast of markets so s.p.a.cious & grand; We answer, "We pray you, be quiet, good fellows, We, too, have a Market--the first in the land!"

Fish, flesh, and garden fruits, Oranges, apples, roots, There you will find them all, seek what you may; Honest the dealers, too, Drink, then, I pray of you-- "Success to the Dealers!"--Huzza and Huzza!

The structure--but why should we speak of its merit?

Enough that we mention the architect's name; And long may the building, begun with such spirit, A monument stand of his talents and fame.

Proofs of a master mind, Talents and taste combin'd, Are they not every where visible--say?

The architect's pride and boast, Then be our hearty toast-- "Mr. R. Grainger!"--Huzza and Huzza!

Wreathe the bowl, wreathe it with wit's brightest flow'rs-- Fill, fill it up till the nectar o'erflows; Never was Burgundy brighter than ours, Never were eye-beams more sparkling than those.

Surrounded by Beauty's train, Captives in willing chains, To eyes that beam witchery, and smiles that betray, Low at the shrine we bow-- Love claims the homage due-- "The Ladies!--the Ladies!"--Huzza and Huzza!

If spirit, by cost nor by trouble dismay'd-- If bounty unmeted, and free as the dew; If courtesy, kindness to each one display'd, May claim our applause, it is owing here now.

Oft in the festive scene, Courteous and kind he's been, But never more courteous, more kind than to-day: Fill then the cup again-- Drain--to the bottom drain-- "His Worship, the Mayor!"--Huzza and Huzza!

THE NEW MARKETS;

_Or, Newcastle Improvements_.

Believe me now, good foke, what I say is not a joke: Behold, says cousin Isabel, improvement now is visible, New buildings you espy, airy, s.p.a.cious, and high, And trading chaps are moving round to sell or buy.

When trade was at a stand, and the river chok'd wi' sand, Caus'd the bodies to a.s.semble, the poor to employ; Then Johnny off packt, up to Lunnon for an act, And the manager for market-building, d.i.c.k's the boy!

CHORUS.

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead, Jack c.o.xan and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind w.i.l.l.y; Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom, Take a view o' wor new city, drink, and then return.

When Colossus he arose, with his Jachin and his Boaz, His plans of such utility, of splendour and gentility, Condemn'd was Tommy Gee, and confirm'd was Tommy B., And the measure seem'd to reconcile both friends and foes: Even butchers' crabbed luiks, wi' their meat on silver huiks, Drop all former animosities, and strut about wi' joy; For the temple of king Solomon, for grandeur, can't follow, man-- All Europe now may shout aloud, that d.i.c.k's the boy!

Then Starkey, &c.

Old houses now beware, how you spoil a street or square, Whatever ground you bide upon, your fate is soon decided on; For tumble down you must, like a lump of mouldy crust, And the Major bell will toll your fate, when all is done; For the rich have found it out, that a camel, without doubt, Through a needle-eye can't pa.s.s without a pilot or a foy; The money, though conservative, will find a good preservative-- The Knight of Leazes Terrace, hinnies, d.i.c.k's the boy!

Then Starkey, &c.

Fine rows of Paphian bowers, for the fruits, and herbs, and flowers, The baskets stand, so pretty looking--feet and tripe, a' fit for cooking-- Fountains fine and pure, that a cripple they may cure, And babies may get baptism, for ought you know; There's a clock to tell the time--but I now must stop my rhime, For the feasting has begun, and each heart seems big with joy; Then come, enjoy the treat, wi' your legs upon your feet, Take off your hats, and shout aloud--Brave d.i.c.k's the boy!

Then Starkey, blaw your reed, ca' the group a' frae the dead, Jack c.o.xon, and Cull Billy, Judy Dowling, and Blind w.i.l.l.y; Let the cavalcade move on, with a tune frae Bywell Tom, View Newca.s.sel's famous city, drink, and then go home.

WM. MITFORD.

MORE INNOVATIONS!

Newcastle's sore transmogrified, as every one may see, But what they've done is nought to that they still intend to dee: There still remain some sonsy spots, pure relics of our ancient features, O' which our canny town shall brag, while bonny Gateshead boasts sand-beaters.

The scrudg'd up Foot of Pilgrim-street, they surely will not mind, 'Tis such a curiosity--a street without an end; Should they extend it to the Quay, and show off All Saints' Church so neatly, It might look fine, but I'm afraid 'twould spoil the Butcher-bank completely!

Of pulling down the Butcher-bank it grieves one's heart to speak, From it down every Quayside-chare there's such a glorious keek; The shambles, too, a bonny sight, the horse and foot-ways nice and narrow-- Say what they will, seek through the world, the Butcher-bank is bad to marrow.

Our fishwives, too, might well complain, forc'd off the hill to move, Where they so long had squall'd in peace, good fellowship, and love: The brightest day will have an end, and here the Sandhill's glory closes, Now flies and fumes no more will make the gentles stop their ears and noses.

'Tis said they mean to clear away the houses in the Side, To set off old St. Nich'las church, so long our greatest pride; But where's the use of making things so very grand and so amazing, To bring daft gowks from far and near, to plague us with their gob and gazing.

The Middle-street's to come down next, and give us better air, And room to make to hold at once the market and the fair; Well may Newcastle grieve for this, because in hot or rainy weather, It look'd so well to see the folks all swelter'd in a hole together.

The Tyne's to run out east and west; and, 'stead of Solway boats, Our Greenland ships at Carlisle call, and not at Johnny Groat's; Dull we may be at such a change--eh, certies, lads, haul down your colours!-- 'Twould be no wonder now to see chain-bridges ruin all the scullers.

R. GILCHRIST.

THE HUMBLE PEt.i.tION OF THE OLD HOUSE IN THE SHIELD-FIELD

_TO JOHN CLAYTON, ESQ._

To fall ne'er enter'd in my head, So staunch is all my station-- As little dreamt I ere to dread The ills of innovation.

Who can deny my dignity, Tho I put little state on, Outshining sham benignity, My canny Mr. Clayton?

Long since my roof has rung to song, And smil'd on gay carouses, Newcastle then--though now so throng-- Was somewhat scant of houses: I've stood so long, nor Bourne nor Brand My days can place a date on, So even spare me still to stand, My canny Mr. Clayton.

Newcastle now, like Greece or Rome, Gives all the world a _mazer_, And Mister Grainger has become More like Nebuchadnezzar: Build houses till ye touch the sun, Aye work both soon and late on, But do not try on me such fun, My canny Mister Clayton.

Yon villas fine--with all their sneers-- Time will not have to hallow, Ere they have seen one-tenth my years, Their sites will lie in fallow; So do not think I envy them, Though pompously they prate on: They're sprigs, but I'm a sober stem, My canny Mister Clayton.

Then say the word, my lease renew, And win a wreath of glory-- A bard of Tyne will sing of you, All in my upper story.

Who lays disporting hands on me, All ills may pour his pate on, So be advis'd, and let me be, My canny Mister Clayton.

R. GILCHRIST.

EUPHY'S CORONATION.

Tune--"Arthur M'Bride."

To the Fish-market we are ganning--the queen is proclaim'd!

And Euphy's their choice, for beauty lang fam'd-- They've geen her full pow'r, now she's justly ordain'd; So they've gyen to crown honest aud Euphy!

The market was crowded the queen for to view-- Euphy sat for promotion, drest up wi' new; The procession appear'd, bearing the flag--a true blue!

And then they surrounded aud Euphy.