And there’ll be Sam the quack doctor, of skill and profession he’ll crack; And Jack who would fain be a soldier, but for a great hump on his back; And Tom in the streets for his living, who grinds razors, scissars, and knives; And two or three merry old women, that calls, “Mugs and dublers, wives.” Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. But neighbours, I’d almost forgot, for to tell ye exactly at one, The dinner will be on the table, and music will play ’till its done: When you’ll be all heartily welcome, of this merry feast for to share, But if you won’t come at this bidding, why then you may stay where you are. Blind Willy’s to play on the fiddle. A SONG, _written and sung by_ H.F.H. _at the opening of Jarrow Colliery, September 26th, 1803_. Old _Jarrow_, long-fam’d for monastical lore, Where Bede, rusty manuscripts search’d o’er and o’er; Now see us assembl’d, upon her green swa’d, With faces all smiling, and spirits full glad. Fal lal de ral la. No long chaunt of Friars now steals thro’ her glooms, No lazy cowl’d monk now her viands consumes; But chearful the strain which our voices upraise, And active the man, who partakes of our praise. Fal lal de ral la. Yet still in researches her sons shew their might, Still labour in darkness to bring good to light: Thro’ legends and fables the friars explor’d, Thro’ strata of rubbish the miners have bor’d. Fal lal de ral la. The labours of both with success have been crown’d, And the miner to Bede is in gratitude bound; For while ignorance reign’d from the line to the pole, In convents the nooks preserv’d sciences--_Coal_. Fal lal de ral la. By science and spirit what great deeds are done, By the union of these, this rich Coal Pit is won: And safe from their labours, the lads of the mine, Now foot it away with the girls of the Tyne. Fal lal de ral la. On ship-board soon plac’d, and impel’d by the gale, For Augusta’s proud towers the produce will sail; Employment it gives to th’ indust’rous and brave, And its trade’s the best nurse for the sons of the wave. Fal lal de ral la. Hail, commerce! thou parent of Albion’s weal, Let Frenchmen still brandish their threatening steel, To drag thee from England, her sons will not yield, They’ll carry thee on, yet prepare for the field. Fal lal de ral la.