X: 1
T:The Cat Pie
M:3/4
L:1/8
C:Tommy Armstrong
K:D
|A|FEF DFA| BcB ABc |dcd Bed|
cBc dcd|eee ecA |dcd A2 A|
dcd dAF|GAG G3 |ABA AFD|
GAB A3| dcd Bed| cBc d2|
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The Lass that Leeves Next Door
Aw like the lass that leeves next door,
They call her Nan!
Aw've oftin thowt the syem before,
She wants a man,
Ay an' aw's the lad that wants a lass,
An' aw think the time 'ill cum to pass
When ye'll find aw's the lad
For Nanny that leeves next door!
Chorus-
For she tuek me heart when sittin an' knittin,
The time that aw wes smokin an' spittin,
An' ivor since then the time it's been fittin,
Throo Nanny that leeves next door!
Aw'll nivor forget the neet we met,
One Tuesday neet,
She wes walkin oot wi' me sister Bet
Alang the street,
An' aw kind a thowt as she met me eye
She was just the one for a chep that's shy,
An' aw seun myed it reet
Wi' Nanny that leeves next door!
She kept us up se weel i' talk,
Aw just said yis!
Or no! a' the time we had the walk,
So ye may guess
That aw set her hyem an' myed luv on the way,
But the neet wis nowt te the varry next day,
When aw clapt me eyes on
Her knitting beside the door.
She luck'd at me wiv a pleasin smile
Aw luckt at her,
An puff'd me baccy a' the while
Beside the door.
Aw tell'd her then what myed us se sad.
An' aw axt her wad she he me for a lad,
Man aw stud like a feul
Throo Nanny that leeves next door!
Thor's plenty o' lads to get maw pet.
Says she te me,
But a man's not nigh se easy te get
Indeed says she
Says aw, an' aw lafft as aw tell'd me plan,--
Aw'll first be your lad an' then be yor man!
Ay, an' ivor since then
Aw've follow'd the lass next door!
-Joe Wilson
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Jack's Listed i' the Ninety-Ite
Tune= Doran's Ass or Finnigan's Wake
Oh what's the metter wi' ye, Meg Dawson?
Oh what's the metter wi' ye the day?
Ye luck as if ye war gan demented,
Yor eyes thor stairin just that way!
The metter wi' me--if ye want te knaw then,
Heh ye heard the news frae Mary White?
She says wor Jack for a sowljor's listed.--
The heed strang feul's i' the Ninety-Ite.
Wif a lot o' lads that's se lang been famed
For nowt that's gud nor they nivor will
Industrious cheps that wad nivvor work
If they just cud raise a penny gill.
He'll heh teun the shillin te serve the queen.
Wi' ne idea o' gannin te fight;
If he thowt thor wes only chance o' war
He wad bid gud-bye te the Ninety Ite.
He nivvor liked wark an' since he was britch'd
He hessent cared hoo he got his meat;
Wif his elbows oot he wad trail the streets,
An' the Peelers mark'd him on thor beat.
He wad argey owt for a pint o' beer.
An' i dominoes he teuk delite
I' playin a bank tiv a five or six.--
They'll not stand that i' the Ninety-te.
On Seturday neets what a swell he was
Wi' velvet cap an black curdyroys;
He wes famous for myekin ruffs keep still
Tho the forst his-sel te myek a noise;
He knew if he married he cuddent keep
A wife, so he teuk one oot o' spite,
Ay, an' he myed her muther an' her keep him,--
A nice young chep for the Ninety-Ite
Aw's sartin we'll nivor can buy him off.
For hoo can poor foaks like us did?
What a pity a gud-like fyece an'heed
Like his, shud carry ne brains wid;
Blud's thicker then wetter-that's true eneuff--
He's still wor awn, tho a cawshun quite,
But bad as he is, they may de him gud,
An' myek him a man i' the Ninety-Ite.
-Joe Wilson
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Dinnet Clash the Door
Tune= Tramp Tramp
Oh, dinnet clash the door! aw've tell'd ye that before.
Can ye not let yor muther hev a rest?
Ye knaw she's turnin aud, an' for eers she's been se bad
That she cannet bear such noises i' the least.
Chorus-
Then oh, lass, dinner clash the door se,
Yor yung an' yor as thowtless as can be,
But yor muther's turning aud,
An' ye knaw she's varry bad,
An' she dissent like to hear ye clash the door,
Just see yor muther there, sittin feeblee i' the chair,
It's quiet that she wants to myek her weel;
She's been yor nurse throo life, been yor guide i' peace an strife,
An' her cumfort ye shud study an' shud feel !
She once wes yung an' strang but bad health 'ill put foaks rang,
An' she cannet bear the noise that once she cud;
She's narvis as can be, an' whativor else ye de,
Ye shud study what ye think 'ill de her gud!
So dinnet clash the door, or myek ony idle stir,
For the stir 'ill only cause your muther pain;
As qauiet as can be de yor wark, an' let her see
That ye'll nivor give her causes te complain.
-Joe Wilson
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Newcassil
Tune= Kitty Tyrrel
Thor's a fine little toon i' the North, lads,
That's been a grand hyemsteed te me;
It wes there where aw forst saw dayleet, lads,
An' there where me poor fether dee'd--
Since then thor's been gud an' bad changes;
Me muther had wark ye'll agree,
Te bring up the whole o' the fam'ly,
I' the toon that aw'll prize till aw dee.
Newcassil, Newcassil,
The canny aud toon still for me!
Aw've seen uther toons i' me travels,
As canny as toons cud weel be,
But the toon that ye knaw aw belang te
Hes charms that they hevint for me!
The bildins aw saw i' these places
Wes nowt when aw thowt o' wor awn,
An' aw luckt lang amang the strange fyeces
Te find oot sum one that aw'd knawn,
Newcassil, Newcassil,
The canny aud toon still for me!
Aw've expeerienc'd a greet lot o' kindness
I' places aw easily cud nyem,
But where cud aw find like Newcassil
A place te myek constant me hyem?
For aw'd miss ivry frind an' acquentance
Aw knew aboot canny Tyneside,
An' it's reet that a man shud think myest ov
His awn wiv affection an' pride
Newcassil Newcassil
The canny aud toon still for me!
It's there where me fethur lies sleepin,
An' me canny aud muther leeves still,
Ti's there where me sister an' bruthers
'Ill welcum us back wi' gud will;
It's there where the ties ov affecshun
Cling closer then ivor te me;
An' iv a' the big fine toons iv Ingland,
Newcassil the dearest shall be.
Newcassil, Newcassil
The canny aud toon still for me!
-Joe Wilson
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Queer Customs
tune= The fiery Clock-Fyece
When wor Peg's audest bairn wes born,
they sent for me, se merry,
An' beggedthat aw wad tyek me torn
Te drink its hilth i sherry;
Or if aw'd hev a glass o' rum
Or whiskey they wad send for sum.
Aw seun got tight as ony drum
Amang the hurry-skurry
Chorus-
In joy or grief, It's maw belief,
It's a custom queer, aw's thinkin;
They say it gies them greetrelief-
A fine excuse for drinkin!
They sent for me te gan alang
An' tyek tea at the christnin;
We sung an' danced frae morn till neet,
An' carried on like foaks not reet;
It cuddent be owt like a treat
Tiv onybody listnin.
But efter that the poor barin deed,
An' cawsed anuther fuddle;
We sobbed an' sighed an' hung wor heeds
Wi' brains all in a muddle.
The drink wes here mixed up wi' grief
We thowt the spirits browt relief;
An one aud wife, i' that belief
The bottle she wad cuddle.
this shows, frae creddle te the grave,
The bottle's a hard maistor;
It myeks se mony foaks its slave,
An' proves a reglor waistor.
Such customs i' the time like these,
Frae care they cannot bring release,
But quarrels cawse an' myek wi' ease
Heeds fit for stickin-plaistor.
-Joe Wilson