Lyr Add: 'Bob Cranky' Songs - Newcastle

Subject: ADD: Bob Cranky's Adieu
From: Conrad Bladey (Peasant- Inactive)
Date: 06 Apr 00 - 11:08 AM

Bob Cranky's Adieu
On going with the Volunteer Association from Gateshead to Newcastle, on permanent Duty

Fareweel, farweel, ma comely pet!
Aw's doon for parm'ent duty set,
O dinna let it grieve thee!
Ma hinny! wipe them e'en sae breet,
That mine wi'love did dazzle;
When thy heart's sad can mine be leet!
Come, ho'way get a jill o' beer,
Thy heart to cheer;
An' when thou sees me mairch away,
Whiles in, whiles out
O' step, nae doot,
Bob Cranky's gane--thou'lt sobbing say,
A sougering to Newcassel!

Come, dinna, dinna whinge and whipe,
Like yammering Isbel Macky;
Cheer up, ma hinny! leet thy pipe,
An take a blast o' backy!
It's but for yen and twenty days,
The foulk's een aw'll dazzle,--
Prood, swagg'ring i' my fine reed claes:
Odds heft! my pit claes- dist thou hear?
Are waurse o' wear;
Mind cloot them weel, when aw's away;
An' a posie grown
Aw'll buy thee soon,
An' thou's drink thy tea--aye, twice a-day,
When aw come frae Newcassel.

Becrike! aw's up tiv every rig,
Sae dinna doot, ma hinny!
But at the Blue stane o' the Brig
Aw'll ha'e ma mairching Ginny.
A Ginny! wuks! sae strange a seet
Ma een wi' joy will dazzle;
But aw'll hed spent that verra neet--
For money, hinny! owre neet to keep,
Wad brick ma sleep;
Sae, smash! aw thinks't a wiser way,
Wi' flesh and beer
Mysel' to cheer,
The lang three weeks that aw've to stay,
A sougering at Newcassel.

But whisht! the sairgent's tongue aw hear,
Fa' in! fa' in! he's yelpin:
The fifes are whusslin' lood an' clear,
An' sair the drums they're skelpin.
Fareweel, ma comely! aw mun gang,
The Gen'ral's een to dazzle;
But, hinny! if the time seems lang,
And thoiu freets about me neet an'day;
Then come away,
Seek out the yell-house where aw stay,
An' we'll kiss and cuddle;
An' mony a fuddle
Sall drive the langsome hours away,
When sougering at Newcassel.

-John Shield, of Newcastle, in Bell

Subject: ADD: Bob Cranky's Complaint
From: Conrad Bladey (Peasant- Inactive)
Date: 06 Apr 00 - 11:10 AM

Bob Cranky's Complaint

Odd smash! 'tis hard aw can't rub dust off,
To see ma lord wi' wig se fine toss'd off,
But they mak a sang man aw can't tell how lang man,
All myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky.

Ma blue coat and pigtail's my awn, wyet!
And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet!
Aw like to shaw town folks,
Whe se oft ca' us gowks
They ar'n se fine as Bob Cranky.

If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a'm Bob,
A'll mak him sing the wrang side o' his gob,
A'll gi'm sic sobbling
A'll set him hyem hobbling,
For myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky.

A'll myek his noodle as reed as ma garters;
A've a ling stick, as weel as lang quarters,
Whilk a'll lay ow'r his back,
'Till he swears ne'er to mak
Ony mair sangs o' Bob Cranky.

Aw wonder the maist how he did spy,
What was dyun, when nobody was by--
Some conj'rer he maun be,
Sioc as wi' Punch aw did see,
Whilk myed the hair stand o' Bob Cranky.

Our viewer sez aw can't de better,
Than send him a story cull letter
But writing a'll let rest;
The pik fits ma hand best,
A pen's owr sma for Bob Cranky.

Nan, whe a'll marry or its very lang,
Sez Hinny, din't mind the cull fellow's sang,
Gif he dis se agyan,
Our schyul maister's pen
Shall tak pairt wi' ma bonny Bob Cranky.

Ize warrn't giv aw weer my pillease,
An ma hat myed of very sma strees;
He'll be chock full o' spite,
An about us will write,
An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.

Sure, Bobby, says she, his head's got a crack,
Ne maiter, sed I, an gov her a smack
Pilleases are tippy,
Like shugar's thy lippy,
And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.

The Crankies, farr back nor I naw,
Hae gyen to Sizes to see trumpets blaw,
Wi' white sticks, an' Sheriff,
But warn't myed a sang of,
Nor laugh'd at, like clever Bob Cranky.

Lord Sizes cums but yence a year, wyet!
To see his big wig a've ne fear, wyat!
So be-crike! while aw leeve,
Thof wi' lang sangs a'm deav'd,
Me Lord at the church shall see Cranky!

-in Bell

Subject: ADD: Bob Cranky's 'Size Sunday
From: Conrad Bladey (Peasant- Inactive)
Date: 06 Apr 00 - 11:11 AM

Bob Cranky's Size Sunday
To Music by Thomas Train, of Gateshead.

Ho'way and aw'll sing the a tune, mun,
'Bout huz see'n my Lord at the town, mun,
Aw seer aw was smart, now
Aw'll lay the a quart, now
Nyen' them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.

When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se,
My jacket wi' posies se fine see,
My sark sic sma' threed, man,
My pig-tail se greet, man!
Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,
Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi' lang quarters,
Aw myed wour bairns cry,
Eh! sarties! ni! Ni!
Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to awd Tom's and fand Nancy,
Kiv aw, Lass, thou's myed to my fancy;
Aw like thou as weel
As a stannin pye heel,
Ho'way to the town wi' Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny's backside we were bangin,
Ki' Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?
Weyt' see my lord 'Sizes,
But ye shanna gan asside us,
For ye're not half se fine as Bob Cranky.

Kiu' Geordy, We leve i' yen raw, weyet,
I' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet,
At a' things aw've play'd
And to hew am'm not flay'd,
Wi' sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin,
At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:
Can ye jump and shuffle,
And cross owre the buckle,
When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky.

Thou naws, i' my hoggars and drawers,
Aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers:
Fra' the trap door bit laddy,
T' the spletter his daddy,
Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!
Thou'd best had thy whisht about warik,
Or aw'll sobble thy body,
And myek thy nose bloody,
If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh'd-- t'church we gat without 'im;
The greet crowds, becrike, how aw hew'd  'em!
Smasht a keel-bully roar'd,
Clear the road! Whilk's my lord?
Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up aa' catch'd just a short gliff
O'lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,
Wi' the little bit mannies,
Se fine and se canny,
Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.

Then away we set off to the yell-house,
Wiv a vew hearty lasses and fellows,
Aw tell'd owre the wig,
Se curl'd and se big;
For nyen saw'd se weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk fit, and kick'd up a racket,
Rove my breeks and spol'd a' my fine jacket:
Nan cry'd and she cuddled
My hinny, thous's fuddled,
Ho'way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky.

So we staggere'd alang fra the town, mun,
Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun:
Smash, a banksman or hewer,
No not a fine viewer,
Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for my new suit a'tatters,
Twe black een--od smash a' sic maters!
When my lord comes agyen, mun,
Aw'l strive every byen, mun,
To bang a' wor Concern, ki' Bob Cranky.

O' the flesh and breed day when wour bun', mun,
Aw' buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun;
For, od smash my neavel!
As lang as wour yebble,
Let's keep up the day, ki' Bob Cranky.

-John Selkirk in Bell
 

Subject: Bob Cranky's Leum'nation Neet.
From: Conrad Bladey (Peasant- Inactive)
Date: 02 May 00 - 04:27 PM

Bob Cranky's Leum'nation Neet

Lord 'Sizes leuks weel in coach shinin',
Whese wig wad let Nan's head an' mine in;
But a bonnier seet,
Was the Leum'nation neet--
It dazzled the een' o' Bob Cranky.

Aboot seven aw gov ower warkin,
Gat beard off, and put a white sark on;
For Newcasslers, thowt aw,
Giff they dinna see me braw,
Will say What a gowk is Bob Cranky!

A ran to the toon without stoppin'
An' fand ilka street like a hoppin;
An' the folks, stood sae thick,
Aw sair wish'd for maw pick,
To hew oot a way for Bob Cranky.

The guns then went off frae the Cassel,
Seun windors wor a' in a dazzle;
Llka place was like day,
Aw then shouted, Hurray!
There's plenty an' peace for Bob Cranky!

Sum windors had pictures sae bonny!
Wi' sma' lamps aw can't tell how mony;
Te count them, aw'm sure,
Wad bother the Viewer--
A greater Goggriffer than Cranky.

Aw see'd croons myed o' lamps blue an' reed,
Whilk aw wad na like to put on my heed!
G.P.R. aw see'd next,
For wor Geordy Prince Rex:--
Nyen spelt it sae weel as Bob Cranky.

Sum had anchors of leet high hung up,
To shew folk greet Bonny was deun up;
But, far as aw see, man,
As reet it wad be, man,
To leet up the pick o' Bob Cranky.

A leg of meat sed, Doon aw's cummin !
But sum chep aw suen fand was hummin;
For aw stopp'd bit belaw,
Handin oot a lang paw,
But mutton cam ne nearer Cranky.

A cask on the Vicar's pumt top, man,
Markt Plenty an' Peace gard me stop, man:
Thinks aw te mesel,
Aw's here get sum yell,
But only cau'd waiter gat Cranky.

Bonny, shav'd biv a bear, was then shot man;
And biv Aud Nick weel thump'd in apot, man;
But aw thowt a' the toon
Shuddent lick him when doon,
Tho' he'd a greet spite to Bob Cranky.

Yen Price had the cream o', the bowl, man,
Wi' good lamps clagg'd close cheek by jowl, man:
It was sick a fine seet,
Aw could glower'd a' neet,
Had fu' been the wame o' Bob Cranky.

Ne mair seed aw till signal gun fired,
Out went the leets, and hyem aw gat,tired:
Nan ax'd bout Leum'nations,
Aw bad her hae patience,
An' first fetch sum flesh to Bob Cranky.

Aw tell'd her what news aw had heerd man,
That shuggar was sixpence a pund, man;
an' good beef at a groat:--
Then wor Nan clear'd her throat,
An' Shooted oot, Plenty for Cranky!

Twas a' lees-for when Nan gang'd te toon,
An for yen pund a sixpence pat doon;
Frae shop she was winnin,
When Grosser, deuce bin him!
Teuk a' the cheap shuggar frae Cranky.

But gif Peace brings another gran' neet,
Aw think folk shoul'd hae Plenty te eat:
Singin' hinnies, aw'm shoor,
An' strang yell at the door,
Wad better not candles please Cranky.

Then agyen, what a shem an' a sin!
Te the Pitt dinner nyen ax'd me in:
Yet aw work like a Turk,
Byeth wi' pick, knife an' fork--
An whe's mair a Pittite nor Cranky.

Or what could ye a' dee without me,
When cau'd ice and snaw com aboot ye!
Then sair ye wad shiver,
For a' ye're sae cliver,
An' lang forthe pick o' Bob Cranky!

John Shield In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.

Subject: ADD: Bob Cranky's Account
From: Conrad Bladey (Peasant- Inactive)
Date: 03 May 00 - 12:11 PM

Bob Cranky's Account
Of the Ascent of Mr. Sadler's balloon from Newcastle, Sept.1 1813(9?)

Ho'way, a' me marrows, big, little, and drest,
The first of a' seets may be seen;
It's the Balloon, man, se greet! aye, faiks! it's ne jest
Tho'it seems, a' the warld, like a dream.
Aw read iv the papers, by gocks! aw remember,
It's to flee without wings i' the air,
On this varry Friday, the furst of September,
Be it cloudy, wet weather, or fair.

And a man, mun, there means, in this varry Balloon
Above, 'mang the stars to fly,
And to haud a converse wi' the man i' the moon,
And cockwebs to soop frae the sky.
So we started frae hyem by eight i' the morn,
Byeth faither and mother and son,
But fand a'wor neighbours had started before,
To get in good time for the fun.

The lanes were a' crouded , some riding, some walking.
Aw ne'er see'd the like iv my life;
'Twas bedlam broke oot, aw thowt by thair talking,
Every bairn, lad, lass, and the wife.
The folks at the winders a' jeer'd as we past,
An' thowt' a' wor numbers surprisin;
They star'd and they 'gloweer'd and axed in jest,
Are all of ye pitmen a rising?

Aw fand, at the toon, te, the shops a' shut up,
And the streets wi' folks were sae flocken;
The walls wi' Balloon papers sae closely clagg'd up,
Be cavers! It luckt like a hoppen.
A fellow was turnin it a' into a joke,
Another was a' the folks hummin,
Whil a third said, it was a bag full o' smoke,
Thatower wor heeds was a cummin.

To the furst o' these cheps says aw, Nyen o' yur fun,
Or aw'll lay thee at length on the styens,
Or thy teeth aw'll beat oot, as sure as a gun,
And mevies aw'll chowk ye wi' byens.
To the beak o' the second aw held up my fist,
D--mn! aw'll bray ye as black as a craw,
Iw'lll knock oot yur e'e, if aw don't aw'll be kist.
'An mump a' the slack o' yur jaw.

Aw pat them to reets, an' onward aw steer'd
An' wonder'd the folks aw had see'd,
But a' was palaver that ever aw heard,
So aw walk'd on as other folk did.
At last aw gat up on the top o' sum sheds,
Biv the help  of an au'd crazy lether;
An' woeer the tops o' ten thousand folks heads,
Aw seun gat a gliff o' the blether.

D--mn, a blether aw call it! by gocks, aw am reet,
For o' silk dipt iv leadeater melted
A's myed of, an Lord! what a wonderful seet,
When the gun tell'd that it was flated.
Twas just like the boiler at wor Bella Pit,
O'er which were a great cabbage net,
Which fasten'd, by a parcel of strings sae fit,
A corf  for the mannie to sit.

As aw sat at me ease aw cud hear a' the folk
Gie their notions about the Balloon;
Aw thowt aw shud brust when aw heurd their strange talk,
Aboot the man's gaun to the moon.
Says yen, if a whisper, Aw think aw hev heurd
He is carrying a letter to Bonny,
That's ower the sea to flee like a burd;
The whowt, by my jinkers! was funny.

A chep wiv a fyece like a poor country bumpkin,
Sed the heurd, but may hap tisent true,
That the thing whilk they saw as a great silken pumpkin
By my eye, what a lilly-ba-loo!
Another said Sadler ( for that is the nyem
O' the man) may pay dear for his frolic,
When he's up iv the clouds ( a stree for his fame!)
His guts may have twangsof the cholic.

The man a' this time the great blether was filling,
Wiv stuff that wad myed a dog sick,
It smelt just as though they were garvage distilling,
Till at length it was full as a tick.
The nextstrain'd the ropes to keep the thing steady
Put colley and drams iv the boat;
Then crack went the cannon, to say it was ready,
An' aw see'd the blether afloat.

Not a word was then heurd, a' eyes were a starin,
for the off ganen moment was near;
To see sic a crowd se whisht was amazen,
Aw thowt aw fand palish and queer.
Afte waitin a wee, aw see'd him come to,
Shaken hands, as aw thowt, wiv his friend;
Of his mountin the corf aw had a full view,
as he sat his ways down at the end.

The ropes were then cut, and upwards he went,
A wavin his flag i' the air;
Ev'ry heed was turn'd up, and a' eyes wur intent
On this comical new flying chair;
It went it's ways up like a lavrick sae hee,
Till it luckt 'bout the size of a skyate;
When in tiv a cloud it was lost t' the e'e,
Aw wisht the man better i' fate.
 

W.Midford-In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster., W&T Fordyce
Newcastle Upon Tyne.