QUAYSIDE DITTY,

Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor? Ah! what's yor news the day, Mr. Mayor? The folks of Sheels, they say, Want wor Custom House away, And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And ye canna say them nay, Mr. Mayor. But dinna let it gan, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Or, ye'll ruin us tiv a man, Mr. Mayor: They say a Branch 'ill dee, But next they'll tyek the Tree, And smash wor canny Kee, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And smash, &c. For ah! they're greedy dogs, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, They'd grub us up like hogs, Mr. Mayor: If the Custom-house they touch, They wad na scruple much For to bolt wor very Hutch, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. For to bolt, &c. Before it be ower lang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Then ca' up a' yor gang, Mr. Mayor: Yor Corporation chiels, They say they're deep as Deils, And they hate the folk of Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And they hate, &c. Ah! get wor Kee-side Sparks, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wor Fitters and their Clerks, Mr. Mayor, To help to bar this stroke— For, faicks, they are the folk That canna bide the joke, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. That canna bide, &c. And egg wor men of news, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wor Mercury and Hues, Mr. Mayor, Wi' Solomon the Wise, Their cause to stigmatize, And trump wors to the skies, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And trump wors, &c. How wad we grieve to see, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, The grass grow on the Kee, Mr. Mayor? So get the weighty prayers Of the porters in the chares, And the wives that sell the wares, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And the wives, &c. A Butcher's off frae Sheels, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Wi' the Deevil at his heels, Mr. Mayor: Faicks, all the way to Lunnin, Just like a strang tide runnin, And ah he's deev'lish cunnin, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. And ah he's, &c. But Nat's as deep as he, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Send him to Lunnin tee, Mr. Mayor, He has wit, we may suppose, Frev his winkers tiv his toes, Since the Major pull'd his nose, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. Since the Major, &c. And send amang the gang, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Arm—what d'ye ca' him—STRANG, Mr. Mayor, Ah! send him, if ye please, The Treasury to teaze, He'll tell them heaps o' lees, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. He'll tell them, &c. If the Sheels folk get the day, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, Ah what will Eldon say, Mr. Mayor? If he has time to spare, He'll surely blast their prayer, For the luve of his calf Chare, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor. For the luve, &c. Then just dee a' ye can, Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And follow up the plan, Mr. Mayor, Else, faicks, ye'll get a spur In your Corporation fur, And ye'll plant at Shields wor Burr!!! Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor, And ye'll plant at Sheels wor Burr!!! Mr. Mayor.