Scenes from Tyneside

I was a young maiden truly,
And lived in Sandgate Street;
I thought to marry a good man,
To keep me warm and neat;  
Some good-like body, some bonny body,
To be with me at noon;
But last I married a keelman,
And my good days are done.  

I thought to marry a parson,
To hear me say my prayers
But I have married a keelman,
And he kicks me down the stairs.  
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An illfaured ugly loon:
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done. 

I thought to marry a dyer,
To dye my apron blue;
But I have married a keelman,
And he makes me sairly rue.  
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An illfaured ugly loon:
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done. 

I thought to marry a sailor,
To bring me sugar and tea ;
But I have married a keelman,
And that he lets me see."  
He's an ugly body, a bubbly body,
An illfaured ugly loon:
And I have married a keelman,
And my good days are done -- done.

Gan to the kye wi' me, my love, Gan to the kye wi' me;
Over the moor and thro' the grove, I'll sing ditties to thee.
Cushie, thy pet, is lowing around her poor firstling's shed,
Tears in her eyes are flowing, because little Colly dead.
Gan to the kye wi' me my love, Gan to the kye wi' me;
Over the moor and thro' the grove, I'll sing ditties to thee. 

All the fine herd of cattle the vigilant sire possest,
After his fall in battle by rebel chieftains were prest:
Kine now is all our property, left by thy father's will;
Yet if we nurse it watchfully, we may win geer enow still.
Gan to the kye wi' me; Gan to the kye wi' me;
Over the moor and thro' the grove, I'll sing ditties to thee. 

Cushie, thy pet, is lowing around her poor firstling's shed,
Tears in her eyes are flowing, because little Colly dead.

Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells the barley, honey';
She lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o' the bush i' the garden, honey. 
Elsie Marley's grown so fine,
She won't get up to serve the swine,
But lies in bed till eight or nine,
And surely she does take her time. 

Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells the barley, honey';
She lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o' the bush i' the garden, honey. 
Elsie Marley is so neat,
It's hard for one to walk the street,
But ev'ry lad and lass they meet cries
Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey? 

Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells the barley, honey';
She lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o' the bush i' the garden, honey. 
Elsie keeps rum, gin, and ale,
in her house below the dale,
where ev'ry tradesman, up and down,
does call and spend his half-a-crown. 

Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells barley, honey';
She lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o' the bush i' the garden, honey. 
The sailors they do call for flip,
As soon as they come from the ship,
And then begin to dance and skip
to the tune of "Elsie Marley" honey. 

Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells the barley, honey';
She lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o' the bush i' the garden, honey. 
So to conclude these lines I've penn'd,
Hoping there's none I do offend,
And thus my merry joke doth end,
Concerning Elsie Marley, honey. 

Di' ye ken Elsie Marley, honey?
The wife that sells the barley, honey';
She lost her pocket and all her money,
Aback o' the bush i' the garden, honey.
Elsie Marley.

Of all the youths both far and near,
My eyes did ever see,
There's one I love sincerely dear,
And truly he loves me.
The youth is ever with my heart,
So kind he is and true,
For O how I love somebody,
O yes indeed I do.
But will not, but dare not,
But will not won't tell who,
But will not won't say who.
 
When e'er a story I advise,
Or talk of love a bit,
My mother always chides and cries,
There's time enough as yet;
But my dear lad does not think so,
So kind he is and true,
For O how I love somebody,
O yes indeed I do,
But will not, but dare not,
But will not won't tell who,
But will not won't say who.
 
The ring is bought, and, better still,
'Tis true, upon my life,
The priest will make us, so he will,
Next Sunday, man and wife,
O then I will be made a bride,
Indeed I wish it too,
For dearly I love somebody,
O yes indeed I do,
But will not, but dare not,
But will not won't tell who,
But will not won't say who.

There is an ale house in yon town
where my love goes and sits him down,
And he takes a young lass on his knee
And that's a grief, a grief to me. 
A grief, a grief I will tell you why,
Because she has more gold than I,
But the gold will go and her beauty will pass,
She'll become to a poor girl like me at last. 

Now all you fair maids take my advice
And never trust a soldier twice,
For he'll pass my door
And he won't come in
Now that my apron's to my chin. 
The father of this bairn's a dirty rat,
He knows he's left a love begat,
And if I die it 'll be a shame
For he'll never know his father's name. 

Oh! dig my grave, dig it wide and deep,
Place marble stones at my head and feet,
And on my breast put a turtle dove
So the world 'll know I died of love. ... Love.

On each market day, sir, the folks to the Quay, sir,
Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn,
And round a small grate, sir, in crowds theay all wait sir,
To get them-selves shaved in a rotative turn.

Old soldiers on sticks, sir, upon politics, sir,
Debate till at length they quite heated are grown.
Nay nothing escapes, sir, until Madam Scrape, sir,
cries "Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down. 

A medley this place is of those who sell laces,
With fine shirtneck buttons, and good cabbage nets:
Where matchmen at meeting give each a kind greeting,
And ask one another how trade with them sets;

Joined in with Tom Hoggers and little Bob Nackers,
who wander the streets in their fuddleing gills:
And those folks with bags, sir, who buy up old rags, sir,
That deal in fly cages and paper windmills. 

There pitmen with baskets and fine posey waistcoats,
Discourse about nought but who puts and hews best;
There keelmen just landed swear "May they be stranded"
if the're not shaved first while their keel's at the fest;

With face full of coal dust, would frighten one almost,
Throw off hat and wig while they usurp the chair;
Whilst others stand looking and think it provoking,
But, for insult, to oppose them none dare. 

When under the chin, sir, she trucks the cloth in, sir,
Their old quid they'll pop in the peajacket cuff;
And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting
And looking around with an air fierce and bluff.

Such tales as go round, sir, would surely confound, sir,
And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise;
But when she prepares, sir, take off the hairs, sir,
With lather she whitens them up to the eyes. 

No sooner the razor is laid on the face, sir.
Then painful distortions is seen on the brow;
But if they complain, sir, they find it in vain, sir,
She'll tell them "there's nought but what patience can do."

And as she scrapes round 'em, if she by chance wound 'em,
They'll cry out as though she'd be reav'd them of life.
"Od smash yor brains, woman! aw find the bloods comin!
Awd rather been shav'd, rather been shav'd with an awd gully, awd gully knife." 

For all they can say, sir, she still rasps away, sir,
And sweeps round their jaw the chop-tor-turing tool;
Till they in a pet, sir, request her to whet, sir;
But she gives them for answer "sit still ye fond fool!"

For all their repining, their twisting and twining,
She forth with proceeds till she's mown off the hair;
When finished, cries "there, sir," then straight from the chair, sir,
They'll jump crying "dare-say you've scraped the bone bare."