By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle. Fareweel, fareweel, ma comely pet! Aw’s fourc’d three weeks to leave thee; Aw’s doon for _parm’ent duty_ set, O dinna let it grieve thee! Ma hinny! wipe them e’en, sae breet, That mine wi’ love did dazzle; When thy heart’s sad can mine be leet! Come, ho’way get a jill o’ beer, Thy heart to cheer: An’ when thou sees me mairch away, Whiles in, whiles out O’ step, nae doot, “Bob Cranky’s gane--” thou’lt sobbing say, “A sougering to Newcassel!” Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe, Like yammering Isbel Macky; Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe, And take a blast o’ backy! It’s but for yen and twenty days, The foulks’s een aw’ll dazzle,-- Prood, swagg’ring i’ my fine reed claes: Odds heft! my pit claes--dist thou hear? Are waurse o’ wear; Mind cloot them weel, when aw’s away; An’ a posie gown Aw’ll buy thee soon, An’ thou’s drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day, When aw come frae Newcassel. Becrike! aw’s up tiv every rig, Sae dinna doot, ma hinny! But at the Blue stane o’ the Brig Aw’ll ha’e ma mairching Ginny. A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet Ma een wi’ joy will dazzle; But aw’ll hed spent that verra neet-- For money, hinny! owre neet to keep, Wad brick ma sleep: Sae, smash! aw thinks’t a wiser way, Wi’ flesh and beer Mysel’ to cheer, The lang three weeks that aw’ve to stay, A sougering at Newcassel. But whisht! the sairgent’s tongue aw hear, “Fa’ in! fa’ in!” he’s yelpin: The fifes are whusslin’ lood an’ clear, An’ sair the drums they’re skelpin. Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang, The Gen’ral’s een to dazzle; But, hinny! if the time seems lang, And thou freets about me neet an’ day; Then come away, Seek out the yell-house where aw stay, An’ we’ll kiss and cuddle; An’ mony a fuddle Sall drive the langsome hours away, When sougering at Newcassel. O NO, MY LOVE, NO. _By JOHN SHIELD, of Newcastle._ Whilst the dread voice of war thro’ the welkin rebellows, And aspects undaunted our Volunteers show, Do you think, O my Delia! to join the brave fellows, My heart beats impatient? O no, my love, no. At the dawn of the day, their warm beds still forsaking, To scamper thro’ _bogs_, or where prickly _whins_ grow, When I view them of pastimes so martial partaking, Do I sicken with envy? O no, my love, no. Array’d in full splendour, their arms brightly shining, On _guard_ or on _picquet_, when proudly they go, (For the pleasures of _permanent duty_ repining) Do I sigh to go with them? O no, my love, no. Or think you that, eager to quell rude disorder, What time our brave heroes shall face the dread foe, I’ve determin’d to serve under Mr Recorder, In the tip-staff battalion? O no, my love, no.