Part 23 (1/2)

HUMOUROUSLY DESCRIBED BY A PITMAN.

Now, Geordy, my lad, sit as mute as a tyed, An' aw'll tell ye 'bout Chain Brig at's gaun to be myed; Aw'll begin at the furst, an' gan on till aw c.u.m To the end o' my story--and then aw'll be deun.

Some folks tell a plain, simple story at times, But aw'm nothing like them, aw tell a' things iv rhymes.

Smash, Geordy, sit quiet--keep in thaw great toes, An' aw'll gan as straight forrat as waggoners goes.

Wey, ye see, the folks thought, i' gaun ower the water, 'Stead o' crossing wi' boats, 'at a Brig wad be better; So the gentlemen gather'd a great congregation, The syem as folks de at the heed o' the nation: Then they some things brought forrat, an' some they put back, So they sattled a Brig sud be built iv a crack.

'Twasn't lang efter this, aw gat haud iv a paper, Tell'd the size it should be, just as nice as a taper.

How! says aw to mysel, but they hevent been lang, Das.h.!.+ a fellow like me may st.i.te myek up a sang, Or some such like thing--just to myek a bit fun: So it's ne seuner said than it's cleverly deun.

Folks thought me a genius when first aw was born-- But what is aw deein?--aw mun tell ye the form O' this said Iron Brig 'at aw's talking aboot, When aw pull up me breeches, and blaw out me snout.

Huge abutments o' styen, aw think they are call'd-- When aw com to that word aw was varry near pall'd; On each side o' the river yen o' thor things is myed, To fit intiv a hole they howk out wiv a spyed.

Frae the tops o' thor pillars to the edge o' the banks, Varry strang iron chains, myed o' wrought iron links, Hingin' ower the house-tops o' byeth sides o' the river, Thor chains is continued frae pillar to pillar.

Frae the big'uns is hung some inferior in length, To the bottom of which a foundation of strength Is fixt, wrought wi' iron, and cover'd wi' styen, Then surmounted wi' railing--it's deun, skin and byen.

Now, Geordy, what de ye think ov it, my lad?-- Wey, speak--what's the maiter--or ye tyen varry bad?

Or extonishment is it that's sew'd up yor mouth?

But aw divent much wonder, so aw'll tell the real truth.

Aw wonder wor owners disn't see into it, And myek a Chain Brig for to gan down wor pit.

A! man, but it's cliver--it's use 'ill be great; For to what lad o' s.h.i.+elds wad the thought not be sweet; To cross ower the water without danger or fear, As aw've monny a time deun i' gawn ower the Wear.

When we cross ower the water i' boats we're in danger, But the hazard is wa.r.s.e tiv a man 'at's a stranger.

While this hang'd ugly sailing o' packets survives, Were in very great danger o' losing wor lives.

But it's ne use to tell the unnumber'd disasters Which happen to 'prentices, workmen, and masters, On crossing the Tyne i' them sma' sculler boats, Or ony thing else on the water that floats.

At ony rate, the Chain Brig is a far safer plan, And would save mony lives--contradict it whe can!

Besides, ye knaw, Geordy, it's easier and better For the canny folks 'at leaves on the banks o' the water, To walk straight afore them 'stead o' gaun doon the street, And when they're iv a hurry running doon a' they meet; Forbye being kept myest an hour in suspense, By cairts, that sometimes myek a plague of a fence, Then the folks are a' stopt, tho' they be iv a hurry.

Now, ye blithe lads o' s.h.i.+elds, let it be a' yor glory, To get this Chain Brig rear'd on high in the air, Then we'll hae to soom amang steam-boats ne mair: Smash their great clumsy wheels! aw like nyen o' their wark, They once cowpt me owerboard, an' aw was wet to the sark; But catch me gaun ony mair near them again-- If aw de, say aw divent belang Collingwood Main!

THE COLLIERS' PAY WEEK,

BY HENRY ROBSON.

The Baff-week is o'er--no repining-- Pay-Sat.u.r.day's swift on the wing; At length the blithe morning comes s.h.i.+ning, 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 d.i.c.k 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.