  By T.T. of Newcastle. ’Bout Lunnun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes, That the streets were a’ cover’d wi’ guineas: The houses se fine, sec grandees the folks, Te them hus i’ th’ north were but ninnies. But aw fand ma sel blonk’d when to Lunnun I gat, The folks they a’ luck’d wishy washy; For gould ye may howk ’till ye’re blind as a bat, For their streets are like wors—brave and blashy! ’Bout Lunnun then, div’nt ye mak sic a rout, There’s nouse there ma winkers to dazzle, For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about, We can marra iv canny Newcassel. A Cockney chep show’d me the Thames’ druvy feace, Whilk he said was the pride o’ the nation; And thought at their shippin aw’d maek a haze gaze; But aw whop’d ma foot on his noration. Wi’ hus, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide, We think nouse on’t, aw’ll maek accydavy: Ye’re a gouck if ye din’t knaw that the lads o’ Tyne side, Are the Jacks that maek famish wor navy. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. We went big St Paul’s and Westminster to see, And aw warnt ye aw thought they luck’d pretty: And then we’d a keek at the Monument te, Whilk ma friend ca’d the pearl o’ the city. Wey hinny, says aw, we’ve a Shot Tower se hee, That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven; And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus’ an e’e, Ye’d crack on’t as lang as ye’re livin. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. We trudg’d to St James’s, for there the king lives, Aw warn’d ye a good stare we teuck on’t; By my faicks its been built up by Adam’s aun neaves, For it’s aud as the hills, by the leuk on’t: Shem bin ye, says I, ye shou’d keep the king douse, I speak it without ony malice: Aw own that wor mayor rather wants a new house, But then wor Infirmary’s a palace. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. Ah hinnies! out cum the king while we were there, His leuks seem’d to say, Bairns be happy; So down o’ my hunkers aw set up a blare, For God to preserve him frae Nappy; For Geordy aw’d die, for my loyalty’s trig, And aw own he’s a geud leuken mannie; But if wor Sir Matthew ye buss iv his wig, By gocks, he wad just leuk as canny. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. Ah hinnies! about us the lasses did loup, Thick as curns in a spice singin hinnie; Some aud, and some hardly flig’d owr the doup, But aw kend what they were by their whinnie: A’, mannie, says aw, ye hev mony a tite girl, But aw’m tell’d they’re oft het i’ their trappin: Aw’d cuddle much rather a lass i’ the Sworl, Than the dolls i’ the Strand, or i’ Wappin. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. Wiv a’ the stravaging aw wanted a munch, An’ ma thropple was ready te gizen; So we went tiv a yell house, and there teuk a lunch, But the reck’ning, my saul! was a bizon: Wiv hus i’ th’ North, when aw’m wairsh i’ my way, (But te knaw wor warm hearts, ye yur sell come) Aw lift the first latch, and baith man and dame say, “Cruck your hough, canny man, for ye’re welcome.” ’Bout Lunnun, &c. A shillin aw thought at the Play-house aw’d ware, But aw jump’d there wiv heuk-finger’d people; My pockets gat rip’d, and aw heard ne mair, Nor aw could frae Saint Nicholas’s steeple. Dang Lunnan! wor Play-house aw like just as weel, And wor play-folks aw’s shure are as funny: A shillin’s worth sarves me to laugh till aw squeel, Ne hallion there thrimmels ma money. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. The loss o’ the cotterels aw dinna regaird, For aw’ve getten some white-heft o’ Lunnun; Aw’ve learn’d to prefer my awn canny calf yaird; If ye catch me mair fra’t, ye’ll be cunnun. Aw knaw that the Cockneys crake rum-gum-shus chimes, To maek gam of wor bur, and wor ’parel; But honest Blind Willy shall string this iv rhymes, And aw’ll sing’d for a Christmas Carol. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. |
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