With spirits heroic and sublime, Our lads are brought up on the Tyne; They will our foes with sorrow fill, When once they sail from Newcastle: Where bullets fly and cannons roar, They’ll sweep the seas from shore to shore; And all the world their wonders tell: Huzza, Keel Lads of Newcastle!
THE SONS OF THE TYNE: OR, _British Volunteers_.
Come cheer up your hearts, my brave sons of the Tyne, And boldly come forward to enter the line; Your country it calls you, defend now her right, Against that invader, who dares you to fight. Sons of Tyne all advance, For to humble proud France; And teach Bonaparte, Tho’ ever so hearty, Not t’ insult British valour upon her own shore.
The proud sons of Spain, too, like fools did attempt, With a large Armada to make a descent; But lord Howard convinc’d them, long ere they came near, That they were not to take the wrong sow by the ear! Sons of Tyne, &c.
There was bold Sidney Smith, on the Palestine shore, Made the _army invincible_ lie all in gore; When caught in his Mouse Trap[17] at _Acre de John_, Bonaparte (then Musselman) made a sad moan. Sons of Tyne, &c.
The brave Abercromby shed his last drop of blood, At Alexandria, for his country’s good: And shall _Corsican Tyranny_ ever come near To Britannia’s shores?--No! we’ll all volunteer. Sons of Tyne, &c.
He threats to invade us, and plunder us too, And make us a _province_! but that will not do. If he come, we will shew him a handful of men, Who will take him in Trap, like Sir Sidney again. Sons of Tyne, &c.
Bonaparte’s bravadoes we’ll treat with disdain, Like the heroes of Britain, who rule on the main; We will boldly stand forward in Britannia’s cause, To protect her religion, her liberty and laws. Sons of Tyne, &c.
[17] The seamen call the breach made in the walls at St John de Acre, while Bonaparte was in Egypt, the _Commodore’s Mouse Trap_.
What pleasure oft ’tis to reveal The pain or rapture which we feel; ’Tis bliss while either we impart Unto a sympathetic heart, Just like to that sweet heart of thine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne.
I lose, when near thee, all my care, When from thee, I am all despair; My bosom heaves with anxious pain, Until I meet with thee again, What are these adverse pangs of mine, My lovely Mary of the Tyne?