At length the day began to clear, The sun peep'd through the dew, man, When lo! awd-fashion'd Jarrow Kirk Stood fair within their view, man.

They laugh'd and crack'd about the joke Which lately gar'd them quake, man: They lay, instead of Spain or France, Quite snug at Jarrow Slake, man.

Fal, lal, &c.

May wealth and commerce still increase, And bless our native isle, man, And make each thriving family In happiness to smile, man.

May vict'ry round Britannia's brow Her laurels still entwine, man, The coal-trade flourish more and more Upon the dingy Tyne, man.

Fal, lal, &c.

NEWCASTLE BEER versus SPAW WATER;

_Or, The Pitman and Temperance Society_.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"Mr. Frost."

As Cousin Jack and I, last pay-day, cam to toon, We gat to ROBIN HOOD'S, wor worldly cares to droon-- And there we spent the day--their yell's byeth cheap and strang-- It's reet to soak yen's clay--hang them that thinks it wrang.

Romti bomti bom, &c.

In stagg'rin' hyem at neet, an' bent upon a spree, A broad-brim'd chep cam up, and seem'd to talk quite free;-- He said, to drink small beer or brandy was a curse, It stole away wor brains, an' drain'd each poor man's purse.

Romti bomti bom, &c.

He talk'd 'bout TEMP'RANCE CLUBS, that now are a' the go, And said, if we wad join, we'd ne'er ken want or woe.

We quickly gav consent, wor Friend then led the way, Reet up to Wilkie's went, amang his cronies gay.

Romti bomti bom, &c.

There some wer fair and fat, some nowt but skin and byen, And at a tyebble sat a man near twenty styen-- He roar'd out for some drink, which very suen was browt, And said, My lads, fall tee, and fill yor bags for nowt.

Romti bomti bom, &c.

Aw tried, but smash a drop wad down me weasen gan, But Broad-brim said, quite slee, Come, drink, friend, if thou can 'Twill purge the body clean, and make ye wond'rous wise, And, efter ye are deed, ye'll mount abuen the skies.

Romti bomti, &c.

Suen efter this grand speech aw quietly toddled hyem, And cramm'd some o' their drink into wor canny dyem; But scarcely had she drunk this liquor so divine, Till she began to bowk, and sair her jaws did twine.

Romti bomti, &c.

A Doctor suen was brought frae canny Benwell toon, While Peggy, maw poor la.s.s, was work'd byeth up an' doon; He fund, when he did tyest, this queer, mischievous stuff, To be Spaw Water pure, so Peg was safe eneugh.

Romti bomti bom, &c.

When aw gan back to toon, aw'll tell them what aw think-- Aw'll warn wor neighbours round 'gyen their outlandish drink: Let Quakers gan to Heav'n, an' fill their kites wi' Spaw, Give me Newca.s.sel Beer, content aw'll stay belaw.

Romti bomti bom, &c.

THE PITMAN'S PAY;

_Or, A Night's Discharge to Care_.

I sing not here of warriors bold-- Of battles lost or victories won-- Of cities sack'd, or nations sold, Or any deeds by tyrants done.

I sing the Pitman's plagues and cares-- Their labour hard and lowly cot-- Their homely joys and humble fares-- Their _pay-night_ o'er a foaming pot.

Their week's work done, the coaly craft-- These h.o.r.n.y-handed sons of toil Require a "right gude willie-waught,"

The creaking wheels of life to oil.

See _hewers_, _putters_, _drivers_ too, With pleasure hail this happy day-- All clean _wash'd up_, their way pursue To drink, and crack, and get their _pay_.

The _Buck_, the _Black Horse_, and the _Keys_, Have witness'd many a comic scene, Where's yell to cheer and mirth to please, And drollery that would cure the spleen.

With parched tongues and gyzen'd throats They reach the place, where barleycorn Soon down the dusty cavern floats, From pewter-pot or homely horn.

The dust wash'd down, then comes the care To find that all is rightly bill'd; And each to get his hard-earn'd share From some one in division skill'd.

The money-matters thus decided, They push the pot more briskly round; With hearts elate and hobbies strided, Their cares are all in nappie drown'd.

"Here, la.s.s," says Jack, "help this agyen, It's better yell than's in the toun; But then the road's se het it's tyen, It fizz'd, aw think, as it went doun."

Thus many a foaming pot's requir'd To quench the dry and dusky spark; When ev'ry tongue, as if inspir'd, Wags on about their wives and wark.

The famous feats done in their youth, At _bowling_, _ball_, and _clubby-shaw_-- _Camp-meetings_, _Ranters_, _Gospel-truth_, _Religion_, _politics_, and _law_.

With such variety of matter, Opinions, too, as various quite, We need not wonder at the clatter, When ev'ry tongue wags--wrong or right.

The gifted few in lungs and lair At length, insensibly, divide 'em: And from a three-legg'd stool or chare Each draws his favour'd few beside him.

Now let us ev'ry face survey, Which seems as big with grave debate, As if each word they had to say Was pregnant with impending fate.

Mark those in that secluded place Set snug around the stool of oak, Labouring at some knotty case, Envelop'd in tobacco smoke.

These are the pious, faithful few, Who pierce the dark decrees of fate-- They've read the "Pilgrim's Progress" through, As well as "Boston's Four-fold state."

They'll point you out the day and hour When they experienc'd sin forgiven-- Convince you that they're quite secure, They'll die in peace, and go to heaven.

The moral road's too far about, They like a surer, shorter _cut_, Which frees the _end_ from every doubt, And saves them many a weary foot.

The _first's_ commensurate with our years, And must be travell'd day by day; And to the new-born few appears A very dull and tedious way.

The _other's_ length solely depends Upon the time when we begin _it_; Get but set out--before life ends-- For all's set _right_ when once we're _in_ it.

They're now debating which is best-- The _short-cut_ votes the _others_ double; For this good reason, 'mongst the rest, _It_ really saves a world of trouble.

He that from goodness farthest strays, Becomes a saint of first degree; And Ranter Jeremiah says, "Let bad ones _only_ come to me."

Old _Earth-worm_ soon obeys the call, Conscious, perhaps, he wanted mending, For some few flaws from Adam's fall, Gloss'd o'er by cant and sheer pretending.