Tune--"Skipper Carr and Marky Dunn."

As aw was gannen out yen neet,-- It happen'd in the dark, man,-- A chep cam up ga' me a freet, 'Twas little Skipper Clark, man: His fyece was white as ony clout, Says aw, what hae ye been about?

He gyep'd at me, and gav a shout, O d.i.c.k, I've seen the Deil, man!

Awd Nick had twee great goggle eyes, And horns upon his heed, man, He had a gob,--aye, sic a size, It flay'd me near to deed, man!

His eyes were like twee burning coals, His mouth like one o' wor pit-holes, His horns were like twee crooked poles,-- Aw'm sure it was the Deil, man!

Aw'd often heard wor preacher tell That Awd Nick had twee club-feet,-- Thinks aw, aw'll ken the neet mysel', Whether wor preacher's wrang or reet: With that aw gav a luik about-- The club-feet was there without a doubt; And just wi' that he gav a shout-- And aw'm sure it was the Deil, man.

Od smash! says aw, aw've often heard About this mighty Deil, man,-- Shew me the place where he appear'd, For aw'd like to see him weel, man?

Then d.i.c.k he tuik me to the place, Where he had seen his awful fyece-- And still he swore it was the case, That he had seen the Deil, man.

Alang wi' d.i.c.k aw hitch'd about To see this mighty Deil, man, When just with that d.i.c.k gav a shout-- Luik there! thou'll see him weel, man; But when of him aw'd got a view, Aw laugh'd till aw was black and blue, For it was nought but a great black cow That d.i.c.k tuik for the Deil, man.

J. N.

SANDGATE PANT;

Or, JANE JEMIESON'S GHOST.

BY R. EMERY.

Tune--"I'd be a b.u.t.terfly."

The bell of St. Ann's toll'd two in the morning, As brave Skipper Johnson was gawn to the keel-- From the juice of the barley his poor brain was burning-- In search of relief he through Sandgate did reel; The city was hush, save the keel-bullies' snoring-- The moon faintly gleam'd through the sable-clad sky-- When lo! a poor female her hard fate deploring, Appear'd near the pant, and thus loudly did cry:-- Ripe Chenee oranges, four for a penny!

Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

O listen, ye hero of Sandgate and Stella, Jin Jemieson kens that yor courage is trig, Go tell Billy Elli to meet me, brave fellow-- Aw'll wait yor return on Newca.s.sel Tyne Brig!-- Oh, marcy! cried Johnson, yor looks gar me shiver!

Maw canny la.s.s, Jin, let me fetch him next tide; The spectre then frown'd--and he vanish'd for ever, While Sandgate did ring as she vengefully cried-- Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!

Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

She waits for her lover, each night at this station, And calls her ripe fruit with a voice loud and clear; The keel-bullies listen in great consternation-- Tho' snug in their huddocks, they tremble with fear!

She sports round the pant till the c.o.c.k, in the morning, Announces the day--then away she does fly Till midnight's dread hour--thus each maiden's peace scorning, They start from their couch as they hear her loud cry-- Fine Chenee oranges, four for a penny!

Cherry ripe cornberries--taste them and try!

THE BIRTH-DAY OF QUEEN VICTORIA:

A new Song, intended to be sung on board the Stewards' Barge on Ascension Day, May 24th, 1838.

THOMAS EMERSON HEADLAM, ESQ., MAYOR. JOHN CARR, ESQ., SHERIFF.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!

Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!

Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!

Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!

Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!

Hurrah for the Stewards, the spirits of all!

Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!

Hurrah for a b.u.mper--good health to the Queen!

Our Port to keep famous, may Commerce prevail, And many ships sail with a prosperous gale; And while the wide stream from sweet Hedwin is roll'd, May true Conservators each landmark uphold.

The Herbage Committee, with hearts light and gay, Have leisure from toil to be merry to-day-- Each countenance beaming, in mind all serene, To drink in a b.u.mper--good health to the Queen.

While foes vainly threaten, and faction may rave, Our Union Flag still in triumph shall wave; And whether as few or as many we be, Like true honest Freemen we still will be free.

The fam'd Corporation of our good old town, Unsullied, still onward shall bear its renown; In loyalty ever the foremost we've been, To drink in a b.u.mper--good health to the Queen.

Hurrah for Old England, her Queen, and her laws!

Hurrah for all hearts that are true in the cause!

Hurrah for Newcastle! Hurrah for the Mayor!

Hurrah for the Tyne--its banks bustling and fair!

Hurrah for the Freemen, that rouse at each call!

Hurrah for the Stewards, the Spirit of all!

Hurrah for the many bright days we have seen!

Hurrah for a b.u.mper--long life to the Queen!

_G.o.d save the Queen!_

R. GILCHRIST.

DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]

BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, The snaw drives snelly through the dale, The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, And shivering tells his waefu' tale:--

"Cauld is the night, O let me in, And dinna let your minstrel fa'!

And dinna let his winding-sheet Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

Full ninety winters hae I seen, And pip'd where gor-c.o.c.ks whirring flew, And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween, To lilts which from my drone I blew."

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, "Get up, gudeman, and let him in; For weel ye ken the winter night Was short when he began his din."

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet, Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee; But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, O, haith it's doubly dear to me.

Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame; Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait, Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.