Some went to buy hats and new jackets, And others to see a bit fun; And some wanted leather and tackets To cobble their canny pit shoon: Save the ribbon Dick’s dear had requested, (Aware he had plenty of chink) There was no other care him infested, Unless ’twere his care for good drink. [In the morning the dry man advances To purl-shop to toss off a gill, Ne’er dreading the ills and mischances Attending on those who _sit still_: The drink, Reason’s monitor quelling, Inflames both the brain and the eyes; The inchantment commenc’d, there’s no telling When care-drowning tipplers will rise. O MALT! we acknowledge thy powers What _good_ and what _ill_ dost thou brew! Our good _friend_ in moderate hours-- Our _enemy_ when we get fu’: Could thy vot’ries avoid the fell furies So often awaken’d by thee, We would seldom need Judges or Juries To send folk to Tyburn tree!] At length in Newcastle they centre-- In _Hardy’s_,[4] a house much renown’d, The jovial company enter, Where stores of good liquor abound: As quick as the servants could fill it, (Till emptied was quarts half a score) With heart-burning thirst down they swill it, And thump on the table for more. While thus in fine cue they are seated, Young cock-fighting Ned from the Fell[5] Peep’d in--his “_How dye?_” repeated, And hop’d they were all very well; He swore he was pleased to see them-- One rose up to make him sit down, And join in good fellowship wi’ them, For him they would spend their last crown. The liquor beginning to warm them, In friendship the closer they knit, And tell and hear jokes--and, to charm them, Comes ROBIN, from Denton-Bourn pit; An odd witty, comical fellow, At either a jest or a tale, Especially when he was mellow With drinking stout Newcastle ale. With bousing, and laughing, and smoking, The time slippeth swiftly away; And while they are ranting and joking The church-clock proclaims it mid-day; And now for black-puddings, long measure, They go to TIB TROLLIBAG’S stand, And away bear the glossy rich treasure, With joy, like curl’d bugles in hand. And now a choice house they agreed on, Not far from the head of the Quay; Where they their black puddings might feed on And spend the remains of the day; Where pipers and fiddlers resorted, To pick up the straggling pence, And where the pit lads often sported Their money at Fiddle and Dance. BLIND WILLIE[6] the fidler sat scraping, In corner just as they went in: Some Willington callants were shaking Their feet to his musical din: Jack vow’d he would have some fine cap’ring, As soon as their dinner was o’er, With the lassie that wore the white apron, Now reeling about on the floor.