There’s dancing and singing also in the same town, And many hot scolds there are in the week; ’Tis pleasant indeed the market to see, And the young maids that are mild and meek. The damsels of Sunderland would, if they could, Welcome brave sailors, when they come from sea, Build a fine tower of silver and gold: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. The young men of Sunderland are pretty blades, And when they come in with these handsome maids, They kiss and embrace, and compliment free: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. In Silver-street there lives one Isabel Rod, She keeps the best ale the town can afford, For gentlemen to drink till they cannot see: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. Sunderland’s a fine place, it shines where it stands, And the more I look on it the more my heart warms; And if I was there I would make myself free: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. THE FROLICSOME OLD WOMEN OF SUNDERLAND: _Or, The Disappointed Young Maids._ _Tune_--They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten. You Sunderland lasses draw near, Sure you are forsaken by men; But the old women, they Forget for to play, But will get married at three score and ten. You Sunderland lasses are slow, And yet there’s good choice of young men; The old women, they Do shew you fair play, They get married at threescore and ten. A house that’s within full sea mark, Is very well accustomed by men; But better had they To live honest, I say, Or get married at threescore and ten. There are sailors that are clever young blades, And keel-bullies like unto them; You maids that are fair, Get married this year, Lest you tarry till threescore and ten. The old women carry the day, They beat both the maids and the men; To give Sunderland the sway, For ever and ay, They’ll marry tho’ threescore and ten. SUNDERLAND BRIDGE. _By_ M.W. _of North Shields_. Ye sons of Sunderland, with shouts that rival ocean’s roar, Hail Burdon in his iron boots, who strides from shore to shore! O may ye firm support each leg, or much, O much I fear, Poor Rowland may o’erstretch himself in striding ’cross the Wear! A patent quickly issue out, lest some more bold than he, Should put on larger iron boots, and stride across the sea! Then let us pray for speedy peace, lest Frenchmen should come over, And, fol’wing Burdon’s iron plan, from Calais stride to Dover. ELSIE MARLEY, _An Alewife at Picktree, near Chester-le-Street._ To its own Tune. Elsie Marley is grown so fine, She won’t get up to serve her swine, But lies in bed till eight or nine, And surely she does take her time.