Subject: The Noodle and Rifleman's Dispute
From:
*#1 PEASANT*
Date: 26 Mar 02 - 08:15 PM
The Noodle an' Rifleman's Dispute
Tune- Suit O' Cudoroy Jack Hall, a boisteroius noodle,
A hearty volunteer,
Honor'd for his glorious deeds
At shops where they sell beer,
A reggilar cock-tail tumler
An' a model te the toon,
For he cud drink a pint o' rum,
An' a gill te send it doon. One fine neet Jack went te Mackey's
Te hev, on tick, his gill.
'Twes there he saw a rifle chep,
That just had been at drill,
Jack first luckt at his awn blue claes
Then glower'd at the gray,
Be gox, says he, mine's best for nowt
An' a half a crown a day! The rifleman luckt varry feerce,
For he had cause ne doot,
Wiv urjins frev a boozy lot,
They started te dispute;
The blue sat doon, the gray got up
Te speak,--wiv a noble air
Advised a man on the tyeble
The get doon an' tyek the chair. Mister chairman, gentleman, all,
Aw's private i' the grays,
Aw'll not, like a vain egotist,
Claim ivrybody's praise:
Aw volunteer'd te sarve the Queen,
The enemy to defy,
The French heve oftin said they'd cum,
Aw'd like te see them try. Then what use wad the noodles be?
Wi' a' thor blethrin jaw,
They cuddent talk the foeman ower
Te hev a frindly draw;
The riflemen wad fight like men,
An' te victry bravely steer,
They'd blaw the en'my up wi' shot,
When the noodles wad wi' beer. The riflemen are volunteers
Without a daily pay,
Thor sarvices war nivor bowt,.
Like heroes o' pipe-clay!
Amid hoorays an' deefnin cheers,
This brave sowljor teuk his seat,
Applauded biv a' Mackey's props,
Expectin he'd stand treat. The noodle then got up te speak,
An' wink't his blinkin eye.
Says he- Afore aw ope me mooth
Lets hev a drink, aw's dry!
He smackt his lips, then said--Maw frind,
Noo ye munnit think aw's fond,
Fop aw'll clear ivery charge he's myed,
Like a bumler aw'll respond. The noodles are, ye'll a' agree,
The best men upon earth;
Thor se genteel,-- se sober te,
Twes them that frist browt forth
The teetotal pledge for foaks te sign,
An' se noble they behave;
They'd stand thor grund,--or stand a gill,
Like warriors bowld an' brave. The noodles thor a' gentlemen,
Rispected te be sure,
They nivor, like the rifle curs,
Fired ramrods on the moor;
The riflemen black-leg'd us an a',
Undermin'd wor daily pay,
But smash, aw'll fight him for a quart,
Then for war, lads, clear the way. The words got high, the langwege low,
They kickt an' fowt an' swore,
Wi' broken noese, eyes bung'd up,
They rowl'd upon the floor;
The rifle roar'd--the noodle blair'd,
So te settle this dispute,--
The landlord, bein a civil man,
He quietly kickt them oot! -Source: Joe Wilson, Tyneside Songs and Drolleries
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