Their hungry stomachs being eased, And gullets well clear’d with a glass, Jack rose from the table and seized The hand of the frolicsome lass. “Ma hinny!” says he, “pray excuse me-- To ask thee to dance I make free.” She reply’d, “I’d be loth to refuse thee! Now fiddler play--“Jigging for me.”” The damsel displays all her graces, The collier exerts all his power, They caper in circling paces, And _set_ at each end of the floor: He jumps, and his heels knack and rattle, At turns of the music so sweet He makes such a thundering brattle, The floor seems afraid of his feet. This couple being seated, rose Bob up, He wish’d to make one in a jig; But a Wellington lad set his gob up,-- O’er him there should none “_run the rig_.” For now ’twas his turn for a caper, And he would dance first as he’d rose; Bob’s passion beginning to vapour, He twisted his opponent’s nose. The Willington lads, for their Franky, Jump’d up, to revenge the foul deed; And those in behalf of Bob Cranky Sprung forward--for now there was need. Bob canted the form, with a kevel, As he was exerting his strength; But he got on the lug such a _nevel_, That down he came all his long length. Tom Brown, from behind the long table, Impatient to join in the fight, Made a spring, some rude foe to disable, For he was a man of some might: Misfortune, alas! was attending, An accident fill’d him with fear; An old rusty nail his flesh rending, Oblig’d him to slink in the rear. When sober, a mild man was Marley, More apt to join friends than make foes; But rais’d by the juice of the barley, He put in some sobbling blows. And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector, A courageous fellow, and stout: He stood their bold friend and protector, And thump’d the opponents about. All hand-over-head, topsy turvy, They struck with fists, elbows, and feet, A Wellington callant, called Gurvy, Was top-tails tost over the seat: Luke Carr had one eye clos’d entire; And what is a serio-farce, Poor Robin was cast on the fire, His breeks torn and burnt off his a--e. Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches? Disaster now makes thee quite mum; Thy wit could not save the good breeches, That mencefully cover’d thy bum: To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging, And lug out some squandering coins; For now ’tis too late to be grudging,-- Thou cannot go home with bare groins. How the warfaring companies parted, The Muse chuseth not to proclaim; But, ’tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted, They quietly went--“toddling hame.” Now ye Collier callants, so clever, Residing ’tween Tyne and the Wear, Beware, when you fuddle together, Of making too free with strong beer. [4] Sign of the Black Boy, Groat Market. [5] Gateshead Fell. [6] William Purvis, a blind fidler so called. THE QUAYSIDE SHAVER.