Says I, divent laugh at poor folks, But gang and bring some o’ yur jacky; Aw want neane o’ yur jibes or jokes; I’ th’ mean time aw’ll tak a bit backy. Aw just tuke a chew o’ pig tail, She brought in this jacky se funny: Says she, Sir, that’s better than ale: And held out her hand for the money. Rum te idily, &c. There’s three pence to pay, if you please: Aw star’d an’ aw gap’d like a ninny: Od smash thee, aw’ll sit at ma ease, An’ not stir till aw’ve spent a half guinea. Aw sat an’ aw drank till quite blind, Then aw’ gat up to gang to the door, But deel smash a door cou’d aw find, An’ fell flat o’ ma fyess on the floor. Rum te idily, &c. There aw lay for ever se lang, And dreamt about rivers and ditches; When waken’d, was singing this song-- “Smash, jacky, thou’s wet a’ ma breeches.” An’ faith! but the sang it was true, For jacky had been se prevailing, He’d whistled himsel’ quickly through, An’ the chairs an’ tables were sailing. Rum te idily, &c. Then rising, aw went ma ways heame, Aw knock’d at the door, an’ cry’d, Jenny; Says she, Canny man, is’te lame, Or been wadin in Tyne, ma hinny? I’ troth, she was like for to dee, An’ just by the way to relieve her, The water’s been wadin through me, An’ this jacky’s a gay deceiver. Rum te idily, &c. If e’er aw drink jacky again, May the bitch of a lass, ma adviser, Loup alive down ma throat, with a stane As big as a pulveriser. Rum te idily, &c. THE NEWCASTLE BEAUTIES. These beauties must be now of some age, as they are unknown to the editor. _Designed to be sung to the Harpsicord or Spinet, &c._ I. Tho’ lofty bards sublimer sing, And boldly tune their lays; Not less renown attends the string, Which sounds to beauty’s praise. Ye muses then lend me your aid, Whilst I attempt to prove, That in _Newcastle_ many a maid Excells the queen of love. II. Ye bards, forbear your partial lays, Ye who so lofty sing, Nor longer only _Venus_ praise, But here your numbers bring. No more shall blinded mortals pray, Or bow before her shrine; No more in _Cyprus_ seek the bay, But find it here on _Tyne_. III. First of yon throng, see _Delia_[18] shine, That matchless nonpareil! All eyes confess her form divine, Such graces round her dwell. Dame nature has herself outdone, In that most beauteous fair, And lavish’d all those charms on one, Which thousands only share. IV.