THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

The Baff-week is o'er—no repining— Pay-Saturday's swift on the wing; At length the blithe morning comes shining, When kelter makes colliers sing. 'Tis Spring, and the weather is cheary, The birds carol 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've got nothing that's new, The Crow, spiteful bird, will besmear them; Oh then, what a sight for to view! The young men, full blithesome 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 enchantment 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 should seldom need Judges or Juries To send folk to Tyburn tree! At length in Newcastle they centre— In Hardy's,[5] a house much renown'd, The jovial company enter, Where stores of good liquor abound: As quick as the servants could fill it, (Till emptied were 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,[6] Peep'd in—his "How d'ye?" 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. Blind Willie[7] the fiddler sat scraping 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. "Maw hinny!" says he, "pray excuse me— To ask thee to dance aw myek free?" She replied, "I'd be loth to refuse thee— Now fiddler play— Jigging for me." The damsel displays all her graces, The collier exerts all his power, They caper in circling paces, And set at each end of the floor: He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle— At turns of the music so sweet, He makes such a thundering brattle, The floor seems afraid of his feet. This couple being seated, rose Bob up, He wish'd to make one in a jig; But a Willington lad set his gob up— O'er him there should none "run the rig;" For now 'twas his turn for a caper, And he would dance first as he'd rose; Bob's passion beginning to vapour, He twisted his opponent's nose. The Willington lads, for their Franky, Jump'd up to revenge the foul deed; And those in behalf of Bob Cranky Sprung forward—for now there was need. Bob canted the form, with a kevel, As he was exerting his strength; But he got on the lug such a nevel, That down came he, all his long length. Tom Brown, from behind the long table, Impatient to join in the fight, Made a spring, some rude foe to disable, For he was a man of some might: Misfortune, alas! was attending, An accident fill'd him with fear; An old rusty nail his flesh rending, Oblig'd him to slink in the rear. When sober, a mild man was Marley, More apt to join friends than make foes; But rais'd by the juice of the barley, He put in some sobbling blows. And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector, A courageous fellow and stout— He stood their bold friend and protector, And thump'd the opponents about. All hand-over-head, topsy-turvy, They struck with fists, elbows, and feet; A Willington callant, call'd Gurvy, Was top-tails tost over the seat: Luke Carr had one eye clos'd entire, And what is a serio-farce, Poor Robin was cast on the fire, His breeks torn and burnt off his a—e. Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches? Disaster now makes thee quite mum; Thy wit could not save the good breeches That mencefully cover'd thy bum: To some slop-shop now thou should be trudging, And lug out more squandering coins; For now 'tis too late to be grudging— Thou cannot go home with bare groins. How the war-faring companies parted, The Muse chuseth not to proclaim; But 'tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted, They quietly went—"toddling hame." Now ye collier callants, so clever, Residing 'tween Tyne and the Wear, Beware, when you fuddle together, Of making too free with strong beer. 1805.