Lyr Add: The Wonderful Tallygrip [telegraph]

Subject: Lyr Add: THE WONDERFUL TALLYGRIP
From: *#1 PEASANT*
Date: 16 Jun 04 - 07:44 AM

The Wonderful Tallyugrip.

The following humorous account of that modern wonder, the electric telegraph wasa originally sung at the Wheat Sheaf Music Saloon, Cloth Market. It became at once a great favorite.

Tune-"Barbara-Bell."

Iv a' the greet wonders that daggles wor blinkers,
The tallygrip's sartin the king o' them a';
It bothers wor maisters, an'' viewers, an' sinkers,
An' hauds them as dumb as a cudy's lockjaw.
Whei it's just a bit wire, like the string ov a fiddle,
Gans alang biv some stobs for te ring a bit bell;
The leetnin', ye ken, runs alang by the middle,
An' turns th' twe poknters se cliver te spell.

The Tallygrip travels by neet an' by day, man,
An' sends a' the news te the man I' the meun;
If ye want to be wedded there's nowse for te pay, man-
Wivoot ony parson the job can be deun.
Big Matty, wor keeker, was married at Howdon
Wivoot ony ring, but the ring iv a bell;
An' Mally, his bride, was then stoppin at Bowden,-
Smash! the Tallygrip said a' the sarvis itsel.

Hoot, man, thor's ne prenter nor shorthandy writer
Can scribble, like Tally, the speeches se fine;
She kens ivery blaw that can sobble a fighter,
An' coonts ivery feul on the banks o' wor Tyne.
The "blue-bottle" cheps hes queeer sprees on the rain, man;
The tallygrip catches folks 'fore they can leet;
That little clock fyece gars the "swells" hing their tail, man,--
Ralphy Little ca's Tally the Policeman's Beat.

Rowley Hill, aw's aflaid, mun be knock'd on the heed, man,
An' letters gan free by the Tallygrip's string;
Ne trouble o' writin', and' far quicker speed, man-
Gox! we'll lairn a' the blackies "Pit Laddie " to sing.
But the negurs 'll ken that us whiteys is traders,
When we cork a' wor jaaws "Lucy Neal" for te shoot,
Wi' wor knackers an' drums, like aud Nick's sorrynaders,
An' carwin like Banties that's bad I' the moot.

Aw went, t'other neet, for te hear some fine singin',
At Blambra's grand consort, an' hear a' thor cracks;
An there aw seun spied a' thor Cupid lads hingin',
An' gas-leeters myed oot o' cannels o' wax.
A chep played Pianny, an' bonny she soonded:
A leddy sung sweet, like a bird 'I the skies;
A chep they ca' Spiers was the joker that croon'd it,
But Charley, the fiddler, bang'd a' for his size.

Noo, what de ye think? it's as true as aw's stannin,
Afore aw gat hyem te wor hoose on the Fell,
Aw met wi' Blue Bella, an' ca'd at the Cannon,
An' just was beginnin o' Blambra's te tell,
When a gentleman chep stopt me short I' me story,
Sayd he, "Sir, ye heerd a grand consort last neet;
The news cam' te Lunnon-I knew it before ye,"
Gox, smash! 'twas the gospel- the Tally was reet!

So aw'd hae ye, maw marrows, te mind what yor deein,
An' not gan galantin wi' sweethearts an' that,
For the tellypie Tally 'ill seun send her fleein,
An' mevies sum cheps might get inte the hat!
Whei dinnet ye knaw when wor Queen gat her bed, man,
The couchers o' Lunnon scarce 'liver'd a son-
Aye, afore the young prince wi' spice boily was fed, man,
The greet 'lumination o' the Tyne was a' deun.

-J.P. Robson