  The Baff week is o’er—no repining— Pay-Saturday’s swift on the wing; At length the blythe morning comes shining, When kelter makes colliers sing: ’Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary, The birds whistle sweet on the spray; Now coal working lads, trim and airy, To Newcastle town hie away. Those married jog on with their hinnies, Their canny bairns go by their side; The daughters keep teazing their minnies For new cloaths to keep up their pride: They plead—Easter Sunday does fear them, For, if they have nothing that’s new, The Crow, spiteful bird! will besmear them; Oh then! what a sight for to view! The young men, full blithsome and jolly, March forward, all decently clad; Some lilting up, “Cut-and-dry, Dolly,” Some singing, “The bonny Pit Lad:” The pranks that were play’d at last binding Engage some in humourous chat; Some halt by the way-side on finding Primroses to place in their hat. Bob Cranky, Jack Hogg, and Dick Marley, Bill Hewitt, Luke Carr, and Tom Brown, In one jolly squad set off early From Benwell to Newcastle town: Such hewers as they (none need doubt it) Ne’er handled a shovel or pick; In high or low seam they could suit it, In regions next door to Old Nick. Some went to buy hats and new jackets, And others to see a bit fun; And some wanted leather and tackets To cobble their canny pit shoon: Save the ribbon Dick’s dear had requested, (Aware he had plenty of chink) There was no other care him infested, Unless ’twere his care for good drink. [In the morning the dry man advances To purl-shop to toss off a gill, Ne’er dreading the ills and mischances Attending on those who sit still: The drink, Reason’s monitor quelling, Inflames both the brain and the eyes; The inchantment commenc’d, there’s no telling When care-drowning tipplers will rise. O Malt! we acknowledge thy powers What good and what ill dost thou brew! Our good friend in moderate hours— Our enemy when we get fu’: Could thy vot’ries avoid the fell furies So often awaken’d by thee, We would seldom need Judges or Juries To send folk to Tyburn tree!] At length in Newcastle they centre— In Hardy’s, The jovial company enter, Where stores of good liquor abound: As quick as the servants could fill it, (Till emptied was quarts half a score) With heart-burning thirst down they swill it, And thump on the table for more. While thus in fine cue they are seated, Young cock-fighting Ned from the Fell Peep’d in—his “How dye?” repeated, And hop’d they were all very well; He swore he was pleased to see them— One rose up to make him sit down, And join in good fellowship wi’ them, For him they would spend their last crown. The liquor beginning to warm them, In friendship the closer they knit, And tell and hear jokes—and, to charm them, Comes Robin, from Denton-Bourn pit; An odd witty, comical fellow, At either a jest or a tale, Especially when he was mellow With drinking stout Newcastle ale. With bousing, and laughing, and smoking, The time slippeth swiftly away; And while they are ranting and joking The church-clock proclaims it mid-day; And now for black-puddings, long measure, They go to Tib Trollibag’s stand, And away bear the glossy rich treasure, With joy, like curl’d bugles in hand. And now a choice house they agreed on, Not far from the head of the Quay; Where they their black puddings might feed on And spend the remains of the day; Where pipers and fiddlers resorted, To pick up the straggling pence, And where the pit lads often sported Their money at Fiddle and Dance. In corner just as they went in: Some Willington callants were shaking Their feet to his musical din: Jack vow’d he would have some fine cap’ring, As soon as their dinner was o’er, With the lassie that wore the white apron, Now reeling about on the floor. Their hungry stomachs being eased, And gullets well clear’d with a glass, Jack rose from the table and seized The hand of the frolicsome lass. “Ma hinny!” says he, “pray excuse me— To ask thee to dance I make free.” She reply’d, “I’d be loth to refuse thee! Now fiddler play—“Jigging for me.”” < |
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