Digital Tradition Mirror

The Mayor of Bordeaux

The Mayor of Bordeaux
 or Mally's Mistake.

 As Jacky sat lowsin his buttons,
 An rowlin his great backey chow,
 The bells o' the toon 'gan to tinkle;
 Cries Mally, What's happen'd us now?
 Ho! jump and fling off thy au'd neet-cap.
 And slip on thy lang-quarter'd shoes,
 Ere thou gets hauf way up the Key,
 Ye'll meet sum that can tell ye the news.

 Fol de rol. &c

 As Mally was puffin an' runnin,
 A gentleman's flonkey she met;
 Canny man, ye mun tell us the news,
 Or ye'll set wor au'd man i' the pet.
 The Mayor of Bordeaux, a French noble,
 Has com'd to Newcassel with speed:
 To neet he sleeps sound at wor Mayor's
 And to morn he'll be at the Queen's Heed.

 Now Mally thank'd him wiv a curtsey,
 And back tiv her Jackey did prance
 Mary Mordox, a fine Fitter's Leydy's
 Com'd over in a coble frae France.
 Mary Mordoux, a fine Fitter's Leydy!
 Ise warrant she's some frolicksome jade,
 And com't to Newcassel for fashions,
 Or else to suspect the Coal Trade.

 So to Peter's thou's gan i' the mornin,
 gan suin an' thou'll get a good pleyce;
 If thou canna get haud of her paw,
 Thou mun get a guid luick at her fyece:
 And if ye can but get a word at her,
 And mind now ye divent think shem,
 Say, Please, ma'm they ca' my wife Marry
 Wor next little bairn's be the syem.

 So betimes the next mornin he travels,
 And up to the Queen's Head he goes,
 Where a skinny chep luik'd frev a winder,
 Wi' white powther'd wig an 'lang nose
 A fine butterflee coat wi' gowld buttons,
 A' man! how the folks did hurro;
 Aw thowt he'd fled from toy-shop i' Lunnin,
 Or else frae sum grand wax-work show.

 Smash! Mally, ye've tell'd a big lee,
 For a man's not a woman, aw'll swear
 But he hardly had spoken these words,
 Till out tumbled a cask o' strang beer.
 Like a cat Jackey flang his leg ower,
 Ay, like bacchus he sat at his ease,
 Tiv aw's fuddled, odsmash! ye may tauk
 Yor Frech gabberish as lang as ye please

 They crush'd sair, but Jack never minded,
 Till wi' liquor he'd lowsen'd ;his bags
 At last a great thrust dang him ower,
 He lay a' his lang length on the flags
 Iv an instant Mall seiz'd his pea jacket,
 Says she, is thou drunk, or thou's lyem?
 The Mayors o' wor box! smash, aw'm fuddled!
 O Mally, wilt thou lead me hyem.

 Wm. Midford -In: The Newcastle Song Book or Tyne-Side Songster.,
W&T Fordyce  Newcastle Upon Tyne.


Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!

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