Not long ago, a fray in Shields
And Sunderland began,
’Tween the Seamen and Ship-owners,
How their vessels they should man;
But the Owners stiff, to them were dead,
Which made the Seamen for to grumble,
For our Tyne Cossacks they soon did send,
The haughty pride of Jack to humble.
Whack! row de dow dow, tal la la di ral di,
Whack! row de dow dow, tal de ral de ral de ral.

A letter being sent, they were
Call’d out, without delay;
But the Gen’ral thought he’d try their skill
Before they went away:
So round the Moer he made them scour,
Before him cut such wondrous capers;
Their praise he sounded high and low,
In all the three Newcassel papers.
Whack! &c.

He cries, My lads, you’re qualified
To do such wondrous feats,
That to Shields and Cleadon you must go,
To clear the lanes and streets;
Destroy all those who may oppose
The ships from sailing down the River,
And then our Prince will sure commend
Your deeds in arms, my boys, so clover.
Whack! &c.

The Butcher cries, If we begin,
We’ll surely kill and slay;
The Tanner swore they’d tan their hides
Before they came away:
A Taylor next, with fear perplext,
Said, he should like no other station,
Than to be the Doctor’s waiting man,
If sanction’d by the Corporation.
Whack! &c.

To Shields they got, tho’ much fatigued,
Upon their worn-out hacks,
Some cried, “The Polish Lancers come!”
And others, “Tyne Cossacks!”
By some mishap, the Farrier’s cap
Blew off, but met with coolish treatment,
Into a huckster’s shop it went,—
Now Martin’s cap’s a tatie beatment.
Whack! &c.

For several weeks they rode about,
Like poachers seeking game;
The Marines so bold, as I am told,
Had better sight than them;
For every boat that was afloat,
They seiz’d upon with mad-like fury,
And to the bottom sent them straight,
Not asking either Judge or Jury.
Whack! &c.

The deed was done by this effort,
All opposition gone,
The ardour of the heroes cool’d,
’Cause they were lookers on:
Odsmash! says yen, if e’er agyen
There’s ony mair au’d boats to smatter,
We’ll hev horses that’s web-footed, then
We’ll fight byeth on the land and watter.
Whack! &c.

Now should our Tyne Cossacks e’er have
To face their enemies,
They’ll boldly meet them on the land,
Or on the stormy seas.
While the farmers sing, that they, next spring,
At spreading dung will ne’er be idle:
So—success to these Invincibles,
Their long swords, saddle, bridle.
Whack! &c.