  The Pitman a drinking of Jacky. (English Gin. This liquor has various names in different parts of the country. At a village in the western part of Northumberland, the editor heard it called Blue Dick.) By J.S. Tune—Drops of Brandy. Ha’ ye been at Newcastle fair, And did ye see ouse o’ great Sandy? Lord bliss us! what wark there was there; And the folks were drinking of brandy. Brandy, a shilling a glass! Aw star’d, and thought it was shamful. Never mind, says aw, canny lass, Give us yell, and aw’ll drink ma wameful. Rum te idily, &c. Says she, Canny man, the yell’s cawd; It comes frev a man they ca’ Mackey, And my faith it’s byeth sour an’ awd; Ye’d best hev a drop o’ wour jacky. Your jacky! says I, now what’s that? I ne’er heard the neame o’ sic liquor. English gin, canny man, that’s flat. And then she set up a great nicker. Rum te idily, &c. Says I, divent laugh at poor folks, But gang and bring some o’ yur jacky; Aw want neane o’ yur jibes or jokes; I’ th’ mean time aw’ll tak a bit backy. Aw just tuke a chew o’ pig tail, She brought in this jacky se funny: Says she, Sir, that’s better than ale: And held out her hand for the money. Rum te idily, &c. There’s three pence to pay, if you please: Aw star’d an’ aw gap’d like a ninny: Od smash thee, aw’ll sit at ma ease, An’ not stir till aw’ve spent a half guinea. Aw sat an’ aw drank till quite blind, Then aw’ gat up to gang to the door, But deel smash a door cou’d aw find, An’ fell flat o’ ma fyess on the floor. Rum te idily, &c. There aw lay for ever se lang, And dreamt about rivers and ditches; When waken’d, was singing this song— “Smash, jacky, thou’s wet a’ ma breeches.” An’ faith! but the sang it was true, For jacky had been se prevailing, He’d whistled himsel’ quickly through, An’ the chairs an’ tables were sailing. Rum te idily, &c. Then rising, aw went ma ways heame, Aw knock’d at the door, an’ cry’d, Jenny; Says she, Canny man, is’te lame, Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny? I’ troth, she was like for to dee, An’ just by the way to relieve her, The water’s been wadin through me, An’ this jacky’s a gay deceiver. Rum te idily, &c. If e’er aw drink jacky again, May the bitch of a lass, ma adviser, Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane As big as a pulveriser. Rum te idily, &c. |
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