_Tune_--Sons of the Tyne. Come, haste to Newcastle, ye sons of fair Freedom, You’ll there see a sight that will banish your fears; A sight that would terrify Bonney, should he come,-- The sight I allude to’s our brave Volunteers. Arrang’d in a row, with the brave Association; The Gateshead, so gallant, are likewise in line; Our Volunteers too, the defence of the nation,-- You likewise will see the bright Legion of Tyne. The Sunderland too, with Artillery assemble; The Shields and the Hexham with ardour appears; The sight of these heroes would make Bonney tremble, Could he get a peep at our brave Volunteers. Ye fam’d Rifle corps, I must too praise your merit; You’ll always be ready when glory does call; The whole fir’d with freedom, with ardour and spirit, When flank’d by the boys from the End of the Wall.[35] You Patriots assembled on this grand occasion, A sight that’s so noble each wounded mind cheers; They’ll always be ready to repel invasion, And merit the title of brave Volunteers. May courage and candour still all your minds govern,-- Your zeal in the pages of history will shine; Be true to your country and just to your Sovereign, Ye sons of fair Freedom, of Wear and of Tyne. [35] Wallsend. THE TOKEN MONGER. A SONG. _Tune_--Erin go bragh. The plaint of a mourner, deep sorrow oppress’d with, Late, as thro’ Dean Street I pass’d, caught my ear; ’Twas a poor Token Monger, who prudence unbless’d with, Had receiv’d for _presumption_, a trimming severe. He gaz’d on the _caution_[36] with wonder dumb founded, His dear self-importance severely was wounded, At such a long list of opponents confounded: The _tokens_ he issued, were tokens of woe. Ah well-a-day! said the poor Token Monger, My project is scouted, my _Mint’s_ at a stand; Alas! the sweet hope, I must cherish no longer, Of Jehu-like driving four in hand. Oh why! e’er in day dreams illusive exulting, Why did I my neighbours ne’er think of consulting! Now grief from their _fiat_ so hostile resulting, Compels me to issue the tokens of woe! I’ve sported rare _logic_, I’ve stuck not at _bouncing_, I’ve prov’d myself rich as a _crœsus_ in _brass_; I’ve amus’d the whole town with my vaunting and flouncing; But vain are my labours, the _tokens_ won’t _pass_! Vain too is thy friendship, dear Butterfly Billy, Of all my supporters, most noisy and silly; Wilt thou still take my tokens? sweet daffa-down-dilly: Oh! those which I issue are tokens of woe! Vanity whisper’d me, “John thou art clever, “Thy neighbours beyond their own noses can’t see;” I foolishly thought so, but never, oh never, Was mortal more sadly mistaken than me. Down from your windows, my friends, snatch your papers, The ridicule now of all _starers_ and _gapers_; Some wag I am fearful will give you the _vapours_, By offering you payment in tokens of woe.