When sober, a mild man was Marley, More apt to join friends than make foes; But rais’d by the juice of the barley, He put in some sobbling blows. And cock-fighting Ned was their Hector, A courageous fellow, and stout: He stood their bold friend and protector, And thump’d the opponents about.
All hand-over-head, topsy turvy, They struck with fists, elbows, and feet, A Wellington callant, called Gurvy, Was top-tails tost over the seat: Luke Carr had one eye clos’d entire; And what is a serio-farce, Poor Robin was cast on the fire, His breeks torn and burnt off his a--e.
Oh, Robin! what argued thy speeches? Disaster now makes thee quite mum; Thy wit could not save the good breeches, That mencefully cover’d thy bum: To some slop-shop now thou may go trudging, And lug out some squandering coins; For now ’tis too late to be grudging,-- Thou cannot go home with bare groins.
How the warfaring companies parted, The Muse chuseth not to proclaim; But, ’tis thought, that, being rather down-hearted, They quietly went--“toddling hame.” Now ye Collier callants, so clever, Residing ’tween Tyne and the Wear, Beware, when you fuddle together, Of making too free with strong beer.
[6] William Purvis, a blind fidler so called.
Formerly on the Sandhill, and afterwards on the Quay, near the Bridge, were people (chiefly women) who, in the open street, on market days, performed the office of Barber.
On each market day, Sir, the folks to the Quay, Sir, Go flocking with beards they have seven days worn. And round the small grate, Sir, in crowds they all wait, Sir, To get themselves shav’d in a rotative turn; Old soldiers on sticks, Sir, about politics, Sir, Debate--till at length they quite heated have grown; May nothing escape, Sir, until _Madame Scrape_, Sir, Cries, “Gentlemen, who is the next to sit down?”
A medley the place is, of those that sell laces, With fine shirt-neck buttons, and good cabbage nets; Where match-men, at meeting, give a kind greeting, And ask one another how trade with them sets: Join’d in with _Tom Hoggars_ and little _Bob Nackers_, Who wander the streets in their fuddling gills; And those folks with bags, Sir, who buy up old rags, Sir, That deal in fly-cages, and paper windmills.