Lyr Add: Days and Deeds of Shakspere

Subject: Lyr Add: Days and Deeds of Shakspere
From: *#1 PEASANT*
Date: 17 Jun 04 - 02:06 PM

Days and Deeds of Shakspere

Tune- "The Old English Gentleman."

Aw'' sing ye a braw new sang,
Aboot Bill Shakspur's plays:
A chep htat kep wor toon I' tow
Wi' queerish neets an' days.
He wes born I' th' Swirl, I' Sandgate, man,
This poet ov a' natur;
And hadded horses for ha'pennies,
Aside wor aud Theatur.

Chorus
Oh a cliver chep wes Shakspur, lads,
An' the brag an' pride o' Tyne.

Ne lad like him cud heave a bool,
Or set the dogs away;
For hingin' hares I' Fenim wood,
Bill wes the time o' day.
He had a kind o' conj'rin' gun
That browt the pheasans doon;
He yence let flee at Crummel's hat,
An' wammel'd oot the croon.

O' gamkeepers Bill made his gam',
An' smok'd his cutty pipe'
For poets, man, ift leeve on air
Or suction, like the snipe.
At hoppins Bill won the meat,
For he wes fond o' greese;
He clamb the mast o' a ship cal'd Fame,
An' gat the goolden fleece.

Jack Ford, Rare Ben, an' Messenger,
Fair deevils for a lark,
Weent oot wi' Bill te Revensworth,
Yen neet when a' wes darrk.
They rammel'd ower that bonny wood,
Wivoot a sign o' luck,
Till Bill gat haud o' twe lang horns,
An' haul'd away a buck.

The keeper-man poor Willy nail'd,
An', gox! there was a spree!
He gar'd the pollis luik like fuils,
Aye, may'r an' 'torneys, tee.
He tell'd them he had browt the horns
The magistrate te fit:
Yen cock-eyed doctor laugh'd se lood,
They say his jaws wes split.

Noo Shaksy went upon wor stage,
An' acted tiv a won'er;
He grund the rosel for the leetnin',
An' rol'd big bools for thun'er;
He myed hell-fires o' reed an' blue;
An', for a spreeish joke,
He popp'd up thro' a great kale-pot,
An' frighten'd a' the folk.

Yence Bill went on to act a pairt,
But, man, he lost the words;
The trapper laddie lowsed the boult,
An' Bill fell thro' the boards!
The owerman went stampin' mad,
Te see the play disgraced:
So Shakspur cut the actor's life
Biv thrawin' up the "Ghaist!"

The Bill ran hyem an' scribbl'd plays,
That pit lads like te read;
The Ranters said he was aud Nick,
'Cas he cud raise the deed.
For, smash! he kenn'd a' things se weel,
'Boot fairies, kings, an' fyuls;
Thor's mair grand sermons iv his buik
Than cums frae Cambridge skyuls.

He tells us ov a blackeymoor,
Wi; goggle eyes se queer,
That dissymolly scumfished,
For a hankercher, aw hear.
An' when the pollis tuik him up,
He shooted for his wife;
Then stuck a gully iv his throat,
An' stopped his gam for life.

Folks tawk o' conjuration sprees,
An' dealings wiv aud Nick;
Noo Prossy Joe white spurrits gat,
By waggin' ov a stick.
Fra Jarrow-Slek a lass he browt,
Beside a monkey-man,
That liked a cask o' Jemmykay,
They ca'd him Callerbran!

Fra thun'er cludes black witches cam,
An' fairies frae the myun;
Green mermaids, tee, frae Hartley Pans,
That kaim'd thor heeds like fun.
Will banged a' poets wiv his pen;
But fules will gan astray;
They like wild beasts and lion kings,
Far mair than Shaksy's play.

Yen neet aw heerd a spurit's voice,
It cried, "Save Shakspur's neck:
Translate him te the vulgar tongue,
An' crum 'leators check.
There's Sherry Knowles can mind his hoose,
An' gret will be thaw blame,
If thou, Bob Stackers, divint start,
An' save Will Shakspur's name."

Se hinnies a', byeth leish an' sma',
An'lasses o' wor Tyne,
Poor Bobby comes afore ye noo,
Te favour his design.
An' if aw gets a greeter praise
Then mevvies is maw reet,
Aw cannit rob the bonny Swan,
Because his fame's cumplete.

-J.P. Robson, "Bards of the Tyne, 1849