NEWCASSEL PROPS

Newcassel Props is a famous folk song written in the 19th century by William Oliver. 

The song pays homage to the passing of several local characters, with a small part dedicated to those still living.

THE NEWCASSEL PROPS
Tune—"The Bold Dragoon"

Oh, waes me for wor canny toon,
It canna stand it lang --
The props are tumbling one by one,
The beeldin seun mun gan;
For Deeth o' lat hez no been blate,
But sent some jovial souls a joggin'
Aw never griev'd for Jacky Tate,
Nor even little Archy Loggan.

But when maw lugs was 'lectrified
Wiv Judy Downey's deeth,
Alang wi' Heufy Scott aw cried,
Till beyth was oot o' breeth;
For greet an' sma', fishwives an' a',
Luik' up tiv her wi' veneration --
If Judy's in the Courts above,
Then for au'd Nick there'll be ne 'cation.

Next Captain Starkey teuk his stick,
And myed his final bow;
Aw wonder if he is scribbling yet,
Or what he's efter noo --
Or if he's drinking jills o' yell,
Or asking pennies to buy backy --
If not allow'd where Starkey's gyen,
Aw'm sure that he'll be quite unhappy.

Jack Coxon iv a trot went off,
One morning very suen --
Cull Billy said, he'd better stop,
But deeth cried, Jackey, come!
Oh, few like him could lift their heels,
Or tell what halls were in the county,
Like mony a proud, black-coated chield,
Jack lived upon the parish bounty.

But cheer up lads, and dinna droop,
Blind Willy's to the fore,
The blythest iv the motley groop,
And fairly worth the score;
O weel aw like to hear him sing,
'Bout aud Sir Mat, an' Dr. Brummel --
If he but lives to see the King,
There is nyen of Willy's friends need grummel.

Cull Billy, tee, wor lugs to bliss,
Wiv news about t'other warld,
Aw move that when wor Vicar dees,
The place for him be arl'd;
For aw really think, wiv half his wit,
He'd myek a reet good pulpit knocker,
Aw'll tell ye where the birth wad fit --
He sugs sae close the parish copper.

Another chep, and then aw's duen, --
He bangs the others far:
Yor mavies wonderin whe aw mean --
Ye gowks, it's Tommy C---r!
When lodgin's scarce just speak to him,
Yor hapless case he'll surely pity,
He'll 'sist upon you gannin' in,
To sup with S---tt, and see the Kitty.

This engraving is taken from an oil painting by Henry Perlee Parker, painted around 1817. The characters were captured in Hell's Kitchen at the Flying Horse in Newcastle's Groat Market. Unfortunately the oil painting is now lost, but this engraving by George Armstrong (published by E. Charnley, a bookseller in the Bigg Market) entitled the 'Eccentric Characters of Newcastle upon Tyne' was issued in 1820.

An index provided with the engraving reveals the identities of these eccentric characters, many of whom were a favourite subject of local song-writes. - 1. Aud Judy -- 2. Jenny Ballo. -- 3. Whin Bob. -- 4. Jacky Coxon. -- 5. Pussy Willy. -- 6. Cull Billy. -- 7. Donald. -- 8. Bugle-Nosed Jack. -- 9. Hangy. 10. Bold Archy. -- 11. Blind Wille. -- 12. Shoe-tie Anty. -- 13. Captain Starkey. -- 14. Doodem Daddum (Dog - Timour).

The portrait forms part of a collection held by Newcastle City Library.

Modern version of 'Hell's Kitchen'
Ronald Sydney Embleton (6 October 1930 – 13 February 1988)

NED CORVAN - THE CALLER

"The Caller" (or in Geordie dialect – "The Caaller") is a famous folk song written in the 19th century by Edward 'Ned' Corvan, in a style deriving from music hall.

"The Caller" tells of a colliery official employed as a "knocker-upper".

This job is described in the words of Robert Wilson as "An official at a colliery engaged to call up the men for work. He makes his first round at half-past 12 a.m., and knocks at all the doors with D chalked on them. These are the deputies' houses; they go to work an hour before the hewers. Every man of the fore-shift marks 1 on his door - that is the sign for the caller to wake him at that hour. The hewer fills his tubs, and continues alternately hewing and filling. Meanwhile, the caller having roused the putters, drivers, and off-handed man, the pit 'hings on', that is, starts work at 5 o'clock." in his paper "Coal mines of Durham and Northumberland"

Why sweet slumber now disturbing,

Why break ye the midnight peace,

Why the sons of toil perturbing,

Have their hours of rest to cease ?

Chorus-

Ho ! marrows, 'tis the Caller cries,

And his voice in the gloom of the night mist dies.

The twinkling stars, through night shade peering,

Blink above with heavenly light

On the sleeping world, as a voice calls clear,

In the stilly air of the sable night.

Chorus - Ho ! marrows, etc.

The collier sleeps, e'en now he's dreaming

Of a pure bright world and loved ones there,

He basks in the rays of fortune beaming

In some far land, full and fair.

Chorus - Ho ! marrows, etc.

Dream on, thou poor and ill-used collier,

For slaves should aye have visions bright,

There's one above who deems thee holier

Than the wealthiest in his sight.

Chorus - Ho ! marrows, etc.

Speed, thee, old man, let him slumber

When happy thoughts are in his breast;

Why should the world his peace encumber?

Go, let the weary collier rest. 

Chorus - Ho ! marrows, etc.

		Ned Corvan playing his famous character 'Cat-Gut Jim'.

Edward Corvan, or as he was famously known, Ned, was born in Liverpool and moved to Newcastle at the age of four. Following the death of his father at an early age, Corvan was raised by his widowed mother who struggled to feed the family of four on her meagre earnings. After a brief career as a sail-maker Corvan joined Billy Purvis's Victoria Theatre. Here he tried his hand at a number of things, but found most success in the performance of local and comic songs. Ned then went on to join the Olympic where he enjoyed great success with songs such as 'Astrilly'. With this popularity he travelled the North singing his Tyneside songs, eventually settling in South Shields where he operated Corvan's Music Hall. After a number of years he gave up the establishment and returned to local singing. Corvan died on the 31st August 1865 at the tragically young age of 35.

FOR 'CUNY'

‘Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd;

Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran;

And say, while mem'ry weeps the blood-stain'd field,

Where lies the chief, and where the common man?’

(John Cunningham)

‘Unto thy dust, sweet Bard! adieu!

Thy hallow'd shrine I slowly leave;

Yet oft, at eve, shall Mem'ry view

The sun-beam ling'ring on thy grave.’

(David Carey)

This week an elegant tombstone, executed by Mr. Drummond of this town, was set up in St. John's church-yard to the memory of the late ingenious Mr. John Cunningham. The following is the inscription thereon:

‘Here lie the Remains of JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

Of his Excellence as a Pastoral Poet,

His Works will remain a Monument

For Ages

After this temporary Tribute of Esteem

Is in Dust forgotten.

He died in Newcastle, Sept 18, 1773,

Aged 44.’

The ritual slaughter

of traffic,

hurling itself

against the furious economy,

the commerce of suffering,

the pain of money,

nudges your bones

in this graveyard of hollow words.

I hear you liked a jar

well, here’s me

sprinkling

your precious monument

with a little local wine,

lubricating the flowers

that burst from your pastoral verses.

You toured the boards like me,

torn like me,

with your heart,

terrific heart,

pouring real blood on your travelling sleeve.

Oh, my God!

your lips trembled

with a delicate love

for the fleeting joy,

the melancholic haze,

the love in a mist,

that Tom Bewick sketched in you

amd Mrs Slack fed

as you passed along

this way and that

despair in your eyes.

The fact was

you were not born

for the rat race

of letters,

the ducking and fawning

for tasteless prizes,

the empty bloated rivalry,

the thrust of their bearded egos.

You wanted wonder,

the precise touch

of the sun on your grave,

the delicious kiss

that never comes back.

I’m with you, ‘Cuny’

in this Newcastle Company of Comedians;

I’m in your clouds of drunken ways;

I twitch with you

in my poetic nervousness

along Westgate Road.

And the girls left their petals for you

like I hope they do for me

in the light of the silver moon,

thinking of your pen

scratching stars into the dark sky.

KEITH ARMSTRONG

'TWAS ON THE NINTH OF JOON!

(Painting: William Irving)

THE BLAYDON RACES


The lyrics (by Geordie Ridley) as first published in Allan’s book of Tyneside Songs in 1862:

Aw went to Blaydon Races, ‘twas on the ninth of Joon,

Eiteen hundred an’ sixty-two, on a summer’s efternoon;

Aw tyuk the ‘bus frae Balmbra’s, an’ she wis heavy laden,

Away we went alang Collingwood Street, that’s on the road to Blaydon.

Chorus

Ah me lads, ye shud only seen us gannin’,

We pass’d the foaks upon the road just as they wor stannin’;

Thor wes lots o’ lads an’ lasses there, all wi’ smiling faces,

Gawn alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.

We flew past Airmstrang’s factory, and up to the "Robin Adair",

Just gannin’ doon te the railway bridge, the ‘bus wheel flew off there.

The lasses lost their crinolines off, an’ the veils that hide their faces,

An’ aw got two black eyes an’ a broken nose in gan te Blaydon Races.

(Chorus)

When we gat the wheel put on away we went agyen,

But them that had their noses broke they cam back ower hyem;

Sum went to the Dispensary an’ uthers to Doctor Gibbs,

An’ sum sought out the Infirmary to mend their broken ribs.

(Chorus)

Noo when we gat to Paradise thor wes bonny gam begun;

Thor was fower-an-twenty on the ‘bus, man, hoo they danced an’ sung;

They called on me to sing a sang, aw sung them "Paddy Fagan",

Aw danced a jig an’ swung my twig that day aw went to Blaydon.

(Chorus)

We flew across the Chain Bridge reet into Blaydon toon,

The bellman he was callin’ there, they call him Jackie Brown;

Aw saw him talkin’ to sum cheps, an’ them he was pursuadin’

To gan an’ see Geordy Ridley’s concert in the Mechanics’ Hall at Blaydon.

(Chorus)

The rain it poor’d aw the day an’ myed the groons quite muddy,

Coffy Johnny had a white hat on - they war shootin’ "Whe stole the cuddy."

There wes spice stalls an’ munkey shows an’ aud wives selling ciders,

An’ a chep wiv a hapenny roond aboot, shootin’ "Noo, me boys, for riders."

(Chorus)

George Ridley was born in Gateshead on 10 February 1835 and began working as a trapper boy at Oakwellgate Colliery when he was just 8 years old. He later went on to work as a wagon rider for Hawks Crawshay & Co but was forced to look elsewhere for employment due to a severe leg injury.

George turned his talents to songwriting and became a popular entertainer, writing and performing his own songs.

The Blaydon Races ballad was first performed by George Ridley at Mr Balmbra's Royal Music Saloon in Newcastle's Cloth Market on 5 June 1962 as part of a benefit concert for the famous oarsman Harry Clasper.

The song was next performed at Blaydon Mechanics Hall on 9 June and it is thought that this performance is probably when the last verse was added.

The Blaydon Races song recounts a trip from Newcastle to Blaydon to go to a horse race meeting that was held at a race course on Blaydon Island. All of the places mentioned in the song did exist and it is thought that all of the characters mentioned were real people.

WELCOME TO THE NORTH EAST!

THOMAS BEWICK - BY THE TYNESIDE POETS

RETURN TO CHERRYBURN - THE LIFE AND WORK OF THOMAS BEWICK (1753-1828).  

POEMS BY THE TYNESIDE POETS:

FOR THOMAS BEWICK

In your precious art you are raised

delicate species fresh, alive

with every searching niche of blade, 

on metalled tints of bone

in flesh, conceived.

Today, our clear eye can review

that aggregate of animals

and spreading plants which grew;

now your thoughts to Cherryburn

are our adoption.

Through sludge of field flung back

from my drag of parting feet,

crossing matted rural lands

you swept in light and shade,

a lock of trees

inside a border to engrave.

Gordon Phillips   

CHERRYBURN

Time, eater of men and stones and landscapes, 

Scarcely turns in some places.  The wheel’s silence

Is held, palpable, among darkened hills.

Trees etched in black against held dusk:

No birds. No sounds; as once and now are one,

Identical, as here at Cherryburn.

We reach the house slated and washed by change.

The stench of dung and fodder under the oak beams

That rib the darkness, echo what we mean:

There is a point where time, itself extinguished,

Remembers, being darkened, what it is.

There is a point where man stops the Dark Wheel

Fixes, outside of time, a detail seem;

And this being done, years past, at Cherryburn

Figures a frail persistency in Man.

We question it, we call in question much 

Eaten by fire, unscorched; the hidden hand

That makes a wall of waters where we pass.

As men have always done, against a sky of brass,

We cry aloud, and doubt it even as we touch

Beyond the real, Impalpable Reality.

Time, eater of stones and men, and all built

Up, is broken on a silence here.  It rests.

Perhaps there are such places, given us

That we may see, over dark piled-up cloud

An earlier moment:  candlelight of dusk;

Man’s lucid mind under astonished glass.

Alan C. Brown

THE HARE

The hare cried

when I took it in my arms…

before the farmer

broke its leg

and flung it back

to face his dogs again…….

And so this hare’s

engraved in memory

preserved forever running

and forever running free.

Eleanor Makepeace 

THE ANGLER

Shielded from the world

In a shrine of foliage,

The angler knots his concentration.

Intruders sense their trespass,

Retreat unseen in silent awe.

While Nature breathes in sympathy

Entirely at one with this bowed figure

Whose inward, intent thoughts

Only a Son of hers

Could so skilfully display

In fulsome, rounded lines

That draw us in to his furrowed brow

And feel the pain of this intensity.

Helen M. Pickles

A STAG

Staring proudly back

with as fine an eye

As cast you there;

Caught, but not snared;

Imprisoned, but unbridled;

Your vibrancy channelled

In delicate lines,

A fleeting stance

So carelessly struck – 

As forgotten by you

As the morning’s scent – 

Now timelessly etched;

A life preserved 

Though long since lost.

Helen M. Pickles

BIRDS

The random rush of nature posed

for your delicate instruments to compose

symphonies of rooks and owls and blackbirds;

a choral work as soft as still words

over which the Mute Swan glides,

floating into place, ruffled only by 

the last deft cut that froze – 

sharp image of an eagle’s savage claws.

Subtle hands plucked a feather

and drew its weight

exactly across a plate,

impressing down upon a page forever:

Thomas Bewick, crakes or crowns,

complex nature, simply posed.

Dave Alton

WAITING FOR DEATH

(Thomas Bewick’s last work)

This last almost immortal now

his weak eyes plucked from time

four iron hooves almost afloat

the ribs’ thin cry what else?

A boxwood landscape cut with rain

Steeple and farm stones the blemished oak

- traces and leather trappings peel the skin

- only a horse? What is, what might have been?

With brown silk cap and scalded skull he leans

over a world turned out become the pain

each of us feels under dark threat, or worse.

Lastly a grim unyielding poise breaks through

His knife opens a mystery  and stilled

the balance of his mind takes all men in.

Alan C. Brown

FIVE POEMS by Keith Armstrong             

AMEN CORNER

(in memory of Thomas Bewick, wood engraver)

The starlings en masse

roost here now.

They blend with the dark trees

in the twilight

by Bewick's shadowy workshop.

Under the Cathedral spire,
they shriek and gossip

in the chill;

chit-chat of more weather.

I think that Thomas

you could speak to birds,

knew them as you drew their words

in woodblocks.

You coaxed them from their very eggs,

uncaged them -

let them sing on the page.

THE BROTHERLY SOCIETY

London

Depressed you

with its ‘blackguard places’,

its streetwalking ways.

They called you ‘Scotchman’

and you itched for home,

reading the Geordie papers

at the Hole-in-the-Wall. 

And your heart trilled like a blackbird’s

when you rejoined your Whig mates,

putting a world to rights

in the Lion Lounge.

You were back

herding sheep in your roots,

smiling down to your boots

in that Brotherly Society

of Northumbrian cronies:

the wild fields

of Tyne.

RETURN TO CHERRYBURN

Drawing

clear of the city,

you carved your name  

in dogs barks

and birds cries.  

Your infant eyes

kept seeing

the devils in bushes

and the gods

in thrushes.

You loved

to scratch a living.

Avoiding the faces

of strange places,

You dreamed of always

Being a boy,

A bird or a fish,

Awash in the light

Of a dark wood:

A cherry burn.

Footprints home

To remember.  

‘TALE PIECES’

You spent your life

perfecting it,

crafty as a fox

forging a frantic path

across the fields.

To the sound of the Pipes,

you worked your way

to a quiet glade,

died contentedly

devising

‘tale-pieces’:

a tuneful ending

to a drawn-in-day.

       

WALK ON, TOM BEWICK     

Stride Circus Lane

and chip your signature

on the pavement of scrapes and kisses.

pass the Forth

and skirt

its pleasure gardens;

throw your darts in the archery field.

skim the bowling green

and walk on water,

doff your hat to Mrs Waldie;

cut along

old scars of lanes

to the bloody gush of Westgate street;

whistle with birds

in a vicar’s garden,

let warm thoughts fly in Tyneside sun

to bless this Geordie day.

And greet

the morning hours,

Aunt Blackett and Gilbert Gray,

sing to free the world,

the Black Boy;

harmonise your mind

in a churchyard of melancholy.

Dance over the Lort Burn,

in the sun in your eyes,

flooding your workshop

with a light fantastic.

Your shoulders so proud

rub with the building girls

and lady barbers

along Sandhill;

the boats of your dreams

bridge the aching Tyne,

ships groaning

in the tender daylight,

longing for the healing moon;

a keelman’s fantasies

of quayside flesh

and the seething sea.

You trip along

searching for electricity and magnetism

in the inns,

winging it

with the bird catchers and canary breeders,

the dirty colliers and the harping whalers.

Walk on Tom,

execute

a portrait

of a hanging man;

let your strong heart

swell with the complex passion

of common folk.