Soon after the publication of this, the overseers of the parish of Saint John’s, (in which parish Billy resided) had him conveyed to their Poor House, without the walls of Newcastle, where he was kept confined until the turbulence of his spirit was reduced. Several persons have felt the power of Billy’s wit, which on some occasions has been very severe. Once, when a person of the name of ---- (not one of the wisest beings of the world) came swaggering out of a tavern, while Bill was haranguing the mob at the door. “Stand out of the way!” cries this would-be great man, shaking his cane in the air, “Stand out of the way! I never give way to fools!” “_But I do_,” cries Billy, bowing, and instantly stept on the pavement: Mr ---- felt the severity of this remark, and instantly made off, leaving the spectators of the transaction almost convulsed with laughter. CANNY NEWCASSEL. _By_ T.T. _of Newcastle._ ’Bout Lunnun aw’d heard sec wonderful spokes, That the streets were a’ cover’d wi’ guineas: The houses se fine, sec grandees the folks, Te them hus i’ th’ north were but ninnies. But aw fand ma sel blonk’d when to Lunnun I gat, The folks they a’ luck’d wishy washy; For gould ye may howk ’till ye’re blind as a bat, For their streets are like wors--brave and blashy! ’Bout Lunnun then, div’nt ye mak sic a rout, There’s nouse there ma winkers to dazzle, For a’ the fine things ye are gobbin about, We can marra iv canny Newcassel. A Cockney chep show’d me the Thames’ druvy feace, Whilk he said was the pride o’ the nation; And thought at their shippin aw’d maek a haze gaze; But aw whop’d ma foot on his noration. Wi’ hus, mun, three hundred ships sail iv a tide, We think nouse on’t, aw’ll maek accydavy: Ye’re a gouck if ye din’t knaw that the lads o’ Tyne side, Are the Jacks that maek famish wor navy. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. We went big St Paul’s and Westminster to see, And aw warnt ye aw thought they luck’d pretty: And then we’d a keek at the Monument te, Whilk ma friend ca’d the pearl o’ the city. Wey hinny, says aw, we’ve a Shot Tower se hee, That biv it ye might scraffle to heaven; And if on Saint Nicholas ye once cus’ an e’e, Ye’d crack on’t as lang as ye’re livin. ’Bout Lunnun, &c. We trudg’d to St James’s, for there the king lives, Aw warn’d ye a good stare we teuck on’t; By my faicks its been built up by Adam’s aun neaves, For it’s aud as the hills, by the leuk on’t: Shem bin ye, says I, ye shou’d keep the king douse, I speak it without ony malice: Aw own that wor mayor rather wants a new house, But then wor Infirmary’s a palace. ’Bout Lunnun, &c.