The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #72706 Message #2337076
Posted By: Jim Dixon
10-May-08 - 08:43 AM
Thread Name: Lyr Req: The Little Fireman (Margaret Wise Brown)
Subject: Lyr Add: THE FIRE ON THE KEE / QUAY
Here's another version of the song that GUEST,Jaqued posted above. Sorry, I don't have time today to proofread it as carefully as I normally would, so there might be some "scannos" here. [Scanno=equivalent of a typo; error introduced by an optical scanner.]
From Allan's Illustrated Edition of Tyneside Songs and Readings, Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Thomas & George Allan, 1891, page 422ff.
THE FIRE ON THE KEE. [sic]
The Explosion of October 6th, 1854, which took its rise from a fire in Gateshead, was perhaps the greatest calamity that ever happened in the North of England.
TUNE—"Wor Jocker."
OH! hae ye seen wor Jimmy, oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy?
Oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy? for the lad's gyen on the spree,
He's pawn'd his coat an' troosers, he gans on as he chooses,
He can wallop a' the bruisers an' greet bullies on the Kee.
CHORUS. Oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy, oh! hae ye seen wor Jimmy?
Tell me, maw canny hinny, for the lad's gyen on the spree.
His nose is neat an' canny, he's a model of a mannie,
An' the pictor o' wor Fanny, oh, the nasty drukken sow.
Aw'll yark his byens wi' skelpin, aw'll set the yelp a yelpin,
Presarve us! there's ne helpin byestin laddies now. CHORUS
He hes a bull-dog wiv him, folks dorsent say owt tiv him,
A good heart beats within him, for he knocks the pollis doon;
He hes twe nice black eyes, tee, an' a mouth for eatin pies, tee;
Folks say he's not ower wise, tee, an' call the lad a cloon.
Spoken.—Aw wish aw could lay hands on him; he went to seek wark this morning—Wark! he's been seekin wark this fourteen years an' niver gettin a job yet—But that fire on the Kee ruined the lad's mind; a gyeble end iv a hoose fell on his head—He's been crack'd iver since. Marcy, what a cutty fosty, but aw'll gie ye an account on't efter the style ov the "Deeth ov Nelson."
TUNE—"'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay."
It was a fearful crash, old buildings they went smash,
'Twas never so before;
The haunts of "auld lang syne" burnt doon on Coaly Tyne,
Laying waste the desolate shore:
For oh! it was a fearful sight, and many a home was lost that night,
For death's grim visitation brought ruin and devastation,
And as from 'mid the flames they hie,
Mercy! save us! hundreds cry—
O! Firemen, do your duty!
O! Firemen, do your duty!
TUNE—"Descriptive Chant."
Hurrying to and fro countless thousands might be seen,
Emerging after hairbreadth 'scapes from ruins where danger just had been;
The soldiers in solemn silence guard the dangerous way,
And firemen willing point the hose to where gaiety dwelt but yesterday.
The populace rushed forth half-dressed in day or night attire,
Like maniacs with maddened brain, from death's devouring fire.
CHORUS. For oh! the flames, Vesuvius-like, they spread o'er land and sea,
Laying desolate waste the spot where once had been Newcastle Kee.
Now many serio-comic scenes were enacted where poor people did dwell,
For goods and chattels from mysterious cribs came tumbling down pellmell.
Aw saw one poor deevil, mevies just gettin oot o' bed,
Hop varry quick to one side iz a wash-han' basin, a kyel pot, and a yetlin' fell a-top iv his head.
'Twas fearful to see the poor aud wives in narrow chares and lanes
Picking up their bits o' things, exposing life, aw's sure they spared ne pains. CHORUS.
Aw say, Pally! thraw the bed oot the window, niver mind the stocks,
Seize Ned's Sunday britches aw bowt last week, but niver mind the box.
Marcy! the floor's geen way,—noo whe wid iver think
That decent folks gan te bed 'boot ten o'clock shud be see close upon deeth's brink?
Search for Tommy's fustin claes, aw cannot see for smoke,
Luik sharp, ye platter-fyeced bunter, or else, begum, aw'll choke. CHORUS.
Search for the bairn's cradle, it's a claes-basket, niver mind, shove it to the door.
Let the auld clock stand agyen the wall, it's time it went 'cas it waddent gan before;
A German for a shillin a week clagged it up agyen the wall,
He's got nowt yit, so faith his tick aw think'll suin be tickin small.
They say Ralphy L—tle's broke his legs, but that myeks little matter,
Cawse a glass o' brandy'll put him reet, wiv a bottle o' soda watter. CHORUS.
Pally, hinny, rush i' the crood an' shoot, for see the smoke an low gets dense,
And luik for Jimmy, maw canny hinny, for the laddie hez ne sense;
But there's a crood o' men there—Mister, can aw claim yor attention?
Aw've lost maw darlin son, an' what he's like aw'll mention—
He's nee scholar, bless the laddie! but he smokes an' chows,
He's parshall ti military movements, espeshley Sangate rows;
He's gat his millishor claes on, thou'll ken him iv a crack,
Besides sum stripes for good behavor, but they put them on his back.
His appearance commands respect—hae ye seen him gannin by?
The skin's off his knockles wi' fightin', an he sports a lairge black eye! CHORUS.
CORVAN. Author's Manuscript, 1862.