"Sure, Bobby," says she, "his head's got a crack,” "Ne maiter," sed I, an gov her a smack.

"Pilleases are tippy,

"Like shugar's thy lippy,

"And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky."

The Crankies, farrer back nor I naw,
Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw,
Wi' white sticks, an' Sheriff,

But warn't myed a sang of,

Nor laugh'd at, like clever Bob Cranky.

Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet!
To see his big wig a've ne fear, wyat!
So be-crike! while aw leeve,

Thof wi' lang sangs a'm deav'd,
Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky!

THE BONNY GEATSIDERS.-1805.

Tune-Bob Cranky.

COME marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,
Sae our thropples together we'll weet now;
Aw've myed a new sang,
And to sing ye't aw lang,
For it's about the Bonny Geatsiders.

Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,
Whether footmen, or ridin o' horses,

'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deel hae them that sees

Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders.

Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a crack,
Through England aw'l back

The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders.

C

When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A' wash their sel's clean i' the sleek trough;
Fling off their black duddies,

Leave hammers and studdies, Smithi,
And to drill-run the Bonny Geatsiders.

To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Permanent Duty they're gannin;
And sune i' th' papers,

We's read a' the capers,

O' the corpse o' the Bonny Geatsiders.
The Newcassel chaps fancy they're clever,
And are vauntin and braggin for ever;

But they'll find themselves wrang,
If they think they can bang,
At soug'rin, the Bonny Geatsiders.

The Gen'ral sall see they can loup dykes,
Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes ;
Nay, to soom (at a pinch)

Through Tyne, wad'nt flinch

The corpse o' the Bonny Geatsiders.

Some think Billy Pitt's nobbit hummin,
When he tells about Bonnepart cummin;
But come when he may,

He'll lang rue the day

He first meets wi' the Bonny Geatsiders.

Like an anchor shank, smash! how they'll clatter 'im,
And turn 'im, and skelp 'im, and batter 'im,

His banes sall by pring,

Like a fryin pan ring,

When he meets wi' the Bonny Geatsiders.

Let them ance get 'im into their taings weel,
Nae fear but they'll give 'im his whaings weel;
And to Hazlett's* pond bring 'im,

And there in chains hing 'im ;

What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders!

* A Pond on Gateshead Fell, fo named on account of the Body of Robert Hazlett being hung in Chains there, September, 1770, for robbing the Mail.

Now, marrows, to shew we're a' loyal,
And that, wi' the King and Blood Royal,
We'll a' soom or sink,

Quairts a piece let us drink,

To the brave and the Bonny Geatsiders.

BOB CRANKY's ADIEU.

On going with the Volunteer Association, from Gateshead to Newcastle, on permanent Duty.

By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle.

FAREWEEL, fareweel, ma comely pet!
Aw's fourc'd three weeks to leave thee;
Aw's doon for parm'ent duty set,

O dinna let it grieve thee!

Ma hinny! wipe them e'en, sae breet,
That mine wi' love did dazzle;
When thy heart's sad can mine be leet!
Come, ho'way get a jill o' beer,

Thy heart to cheer:

An' when thou sees me mairch away,

Whiles in, whiles out

O' step, nae doot,

"Bob Cranky's gane-" thou'lt sobbing say, "A sougering to Newcassel!"

Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe,

Like yammering Isbel Macky;

Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe,
And take a blast o' backy!
It's but for yen and twenty days,
The foulks's een aw'll dazzle,—

comfilaining

Prood, swagg'ring i' my fine reed claes:
Odds heft! my pit claes-dist thou hear?
Are waurse o' wear;

Mind cloot them weel, when aw's away;
An' a posie gown
Aw'll buy thee soon,

An' thou's drink thy tea-aye, twice a-day,
When aw come frae Newcassel.

Becrike! aw's up tiv every rig,
Sae dinna doot, ma hinny!
But at the Blue stane o' the Brig
Aw'll ha'e ma mairching Ginny.
A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet
Ma een wi' joy will dazzle;
But aw'll hed spent that verrà neet-
For money, hinny! owre neet to keep,
Wad brick ma sleep:

Sae, smash! aw thinks't a wiser way,
Wi' flesh and beer

Mysel' to cheer,

The lang three weeks that aw've to stay,
A sougering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the sairgent's tongue aw hear,
"Fa' in! fa' in !" he's yelpin;
The fifes are whusslin' lood an' clear,
An' sair the drums they're skelpin.
Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang,
The Gen'ral's een to dazzle;
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,

And thou freets about me neet an' day;

Then come away,

Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,
An' we'll kiss and cuddle ;

An' mony a fuddle

Sall drive the langsome hours away,
When sougering at Newcassel.

O NO, MY LOVE, NO..

By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle.

WHILST the dread voice of war thro' the welkin rebellows,
And aspects undaunted our Volunteers show,
Do you think, O my Delia ! to join the brave fellows,
My heart beats impatient? O no, my love, no.

At the dawn of the day, their warm bed's still forsaking,

To scamper thro' bogs, or where prickly whins grow, fre When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking,

Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no.

Array'd in full splendour, their arms brightly shining,
On guard or on picquet, when proudly they go,
(For the pleasures of permanent duty repining)
Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no.

Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder,
What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe,
I've determin'd to serve under Mr Recorder,

In the tip-staff battalion ? O no, my love, no.

What means, my lov'd Delia! that frown, now appearing?
Why, why does your brow such severity show?
And wherefore those glances, so cold and uncheering?
Do you think me a poltroon? O no, my love, no.

Though I wear not a red coat, my honour's untainted,-
To Coventry ne'er was I fated to go;

But, whilst with the plan of removal acquainted,
Can I, cruel, desert thee? O no, my love no.

Soon war from thy home may a fugitive send thee,
Soon give thee of keels and their huddocks to know;
In the Voyage to Newburn who'll succour and tend thee;
Shall the task be another's? O no, my love, no.

Then wear not my Delia! an aspect so chilling,
Nor doubt that with ardour heroic I glow;

But love's dear delights shall I barter for drilling?
That smile methinks answers,-" O no, my love, no.”