Them’s lucky that’s born wi’ a gift, ‘Cas some’s born as fond as a stob. But them has ne wark te myek shift, That’s born wi’ the gift o’ the gob. Your readin’ an’ writin’ an’ sums May aall be se clear in yor nob. Where are they when up a chap comes, That’s getten the gift o’ the gob.
What use is a chep that can think? He’s warse than a torr baccyfob! He’s torned ootside in iv a wink, By yen wi’ the gift o’ the gob. Ye’ve oney te larn hoo te taak, Then other folks thowts ye can rob; Ye’ll best them aall clean iv a waak, If ye’ve oney the gift o’ the gob.
Hinnies noo efter aall we’ll not fret, Cas some thinks thor good at the job; Ne cuddy’s a musical pet Tho’ grand at the gift o’ the gob It’s when a chep really can yarn, An’ strite, like a quoit, hit the hob, Wi’ yor heed an’ yor throwts clear, ye larn The use o’ the gift o’ the gob.
Originally published in “Tyneside Songs, Volume Three” by J.G Windows Ltd, 1913.
Richard Oliver Heslop M.A., J.P., F.S.A (1842-1916)
Richard Oliver Heslop is perhaps one of Newcastle’s most under-rated sons; a figure who was celebrated during his lifetime yet now largely unrecognized. Perhaps because he never sought the limelight his life was not one of public prominence. Yet, in his time, Heslop was a popular and well-known figure in Newcastle’s civic, commercial and antiquarian circles, his many and varied roles including that of businessman, historian, lexicologist, author, songwriter and liberalist, as well as holding esteemed civic positions such as Justice of the Peace and Consul to the Netherlands.
While he was a very successful businessman – a self-made man – and civic leader, he is most famously known for his work as a historian and lexicologist. There was no aspect of Northumbria’s heritage that was not addressed by Heslop. Place names, its people and their language, its history and archeology as well as its industrial development, were all examined and placed in context.
He lectured to audiences throughout the region while writing stories and songs under the pseudonym, Harry Haldane. He achieved widespread recognition for his work, Northumbrian Words, a dictionary of the Northumberland dialect published on behalf of the English Dialect Society in 1892.
Oliver Heslop’s unexpected death in 1916 at the age of 74, brought together a Who’s Who of dignitaries that included the Lord Mayor of Newcastle and the Sheriff both of whom, according to the Newcastle Journal, wore their robes of office as a mark of official respect. The funeral was also attended by Sir Walter Runciman, M.P., City Councilors and the Mayor of Durham as well as representatives from five Consular offices. Local papers of the day were effusive in their praise of Heslop and his work, perhaps none describing him better than the obituary written in the Newcastle Daily Journal on March 4, 1916:
“A gentleman of great charm of personality, he was one of the best known and most highly esteemed figures in Northern commercial and literary circles and he filled many public positions with grace, distinction and commanding urbanity. “His researches were conducted with the zeal of an enthusiast and his efforts in disclosing the lustre of Northumberland and Newcastle in this particular realm will stand as a monument to his name for many years to come.”
It is more the pity that his name has since been largely forgotten.
Oliver Heslop was born March 14, 1842 at Villa Place in Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Joseph and Elizabeth Heslop. His father was a relieving officer, a job that involved administering aid to the poor. He was educated at the Royal Grammar School following which he entered into a seven-year apprenticeship with Messrs. Haggie of Gateshead, a well-known supplier of rope and chains to the marine and coal mining industries.
In 1867, the same year in which he married Margaret Webster, Heslop ventured into his own business as an iron and steel merchant with offices located at Sandhill and Stockbridge in Newcastle. Following their marriage, the couple moved to Ashfield Terrace in Elswick where they lived with Heslop’s sister, Sarah, until about 1880 when the family moved to Corbridge. By this time, the couple had two children, Agnes 3, and Richard Oliver, 5 months. Another son, Cuthbert, would be born the following year. The Heslop family eventually returned to Newcastle in 1900, moving into a spacious house on Eskdale Terrace where he lived until his sudden death on March 4, 1916.
It is unclear as to when Heslop took an interest in the Northumberland history and dialect. He’d written a column, ‘North Country Words and Their Meaning,’ for the Newcastle Weekly Chronicle for several years and it is thought that he commenced work on his signature book, Northumberland Words, after moving to Corbridge. In recognition of his study of the antiquities of Northumbria, especially with regard to the region’s dialects, in 1901 he was awarded an honorary Master of Arts degree by Durham University (Armstrong College of Science, Newcastle).
The many positions he held included:
President, Newcastle Literary and Philosophical Society Fellow of the Society of Antiquarians, London Vice President, Newcastle Society of Antiquarians Vice President, Surtees Society Governor, Royal Grammar School Governor, The Royal Infirmary Governor, Armstrong College Member, Public Library Committee Member, Laing Art Gallery Committee Consul, The Netherlands Justice of the Peace, Newcastle-upon-Tyne Author, Northumberland Words Author of numerous lectures and essays on Northumbrian history and dialect Songwriter
Fishwives were a popular sight in Northeast fishing communities during the days of herring-fishing. Many would follow the fishing fleet from Aberdeen to Lowestoft, skillfully wielding their razor-sharp knives to gut and fillet the small fish with lightning speed. Others would sell fish on the streets, carrying them on their backs in creels. This light-hearted essay was written by Fred M. Gascoigne and published in “Tyneside Songs, Volume Two (Third Edition)” by J.G Windows Ltd in 1929.
A chep come knockin’ at wor front door the tother day, so Aa puts me heed oot o’ the window to see whe it waas, an’ it wes acockeyed chep wi’ ginger hair an’ a clooty hat an’ sum papors iv he’s hand. “Good mornin’, Mrs. Salmon,” he sez. “What d’ye want,” Aa sez, for Aa thowt he wes one o’ the “bums” wiv a summons. “Hoot’s hinny,” he sez, “Aa divvent mean that. “Aa want the census papor Aa left heor tother day.” “Wey,” Aa sez, “What for cuddn’t ye a’telt us that afore ’isteed of axin’ a body for thor senses.” So he sez, “Howay doon an’ Aa’ll fill’d up fer ye.” So Aa gans doon an’ he sets hes’sel doon at wor kitchen tyebble an’ bless yor sowl ye nivver hare sec questions as he axed us. He sez, “Noo Aa want te knaa, whe’s the heed o’ the hoose?” Aa sez, “Whe’s the heed o’ the hoose? Wey the chimley’s the heed o’ the hoose.” “No, no,” he sez. “Are ye married?” “Is Aa whaat?” Aa sez. “Aa’ll gie ye a skelp i’ the gobthe-recklies. Ye’ll just unnorstand Aa’s a respectible married wummin, -and mind that,” Aa sez. “Varry good,” he sez. “Then yor husband’s the heed o’ the hoose.” “Wey,” Aa sez, “If he’s the heed Aa’s the neck an’ the heed’s ne use wivoot the neck onyway.” “Well,” he sez, “Noo Aa want the nyems an’ the full prescriptions of aall yor bairns.” “Aye, wey,” Aa sez. “Well thor’s wor Bobby poor sowl, he’s a bit bowlegged, but he cuddent help that, poor bairn, he wes put doon when he wes soft. An’ then thor’s wor little Tommy – a canny bit lad – but he’s the tother way, poor thing – he’s nackneed – but it’s not he’s fault – it’s weakness – he wes browt up on the bottle, ye knaa. An’ then thor’s wor Lizzie Ann, she’s …” “Stop, stop,” he sez. “What Aa want te knaa is what sex they are.” “Oh!” Aa sez, “Wey some’s Roman Candles, an’ some’s Chorch ov Ingland, an’ the rest gans te the Bord Skeul.” “Hoots wummin,” he sez, “That’s not it at aall – what Aa want to knaa is – Are they males or females?” “Oh!” Aa sez, “That’s easy eneuf – the lads’ is males an’ the lasses is females.” “Varry well,” he sez and he put that doon. “Noo,” he sez, “Aa want to knaa yor age.” “Wey hinny,” Aa sez, “Aa divvent knaa mesel, but wor Nanny wes fowerty fower last Race Wednesda’, an’ Aa’s ‘ite yeer aader nor hor com next Pancake Tuesday, so mevvies ye can reckon it up yorsel.” “Noo,” he sez, “Aa hev a varry importent questin’ te ax ye. What’s yor husband?” “Wey,” Aa sez, “He’s a nowt.” “But what dis he de for a livin?” he sez. “Nowt ,” sez Aa. “Wey, then we’ll caall ‘im independent,” he sez, “That is, he leeves on he’s aan means!” “No, hinny, he dissent,” Aa sez, “He leeves on he’s freends.” “Varry well,” he sez. “That’s aall the syem – that’s independent.” “De ye say se,” sez Aa, “Wey Aa divvent call that independent.” “Aye,” he sez, “An what de ye call it?” “Wey, hinny,” Aa sez, “Aa call that ‘spongin’!” An’ then he sez, “Noo Aa’ve on’y one more questin te axe ye.” “Aye,” Aa sez, “An’ what’s that?” “What de ye de for a livin’?”
“Ma hinny,” Aa sez, “De ye not knaa Aad Mary, the fish wife, ivverybody knaa’s me – (shouts) “Caller harn fresh harn. Caller harn. Will ye buy ony Fi……….ssh.”
Notes: To make the essay easier to read, the original publication was modified by using the commonly accepted practice of separating the dialogue with a new line as the speaker changes. Otherwise it is entirely as originally published. The lexicon contains translations of dialectical vocabulary. Words such as knaa (know), syem (same), and leeves (leaves) for example, are phonetic spellings of the dialectical pronunciation and are not included.
I might be showing me age, but I’m still gannen strong. I mean, I was a hundred and sixty-nine yors old last month. Noo that’s a canny age and I’m proud to say, I’m the owldest of the bunch roond here. That modern winky-wonky thing down by the Spillers wharf calls me an ‘old relic’, but I divvent care. I’d like to see him carry two trains and a couple of double-decker buses ower the river at the same time!
I was designed by Robert Stephenson, an outstanding engineer who did a champion job with me. Mind you, he got his brains from his dad, George. Noo there was a clever bloke. Invented the forst miner’s safety lamp he did, although most people will tell you that it was invented by some gadgie called Sor Humphrey Davy. Whey, I’ve never come across a pitman by the name of Humphrey, let alone one that was a “Sor”! Wor George on the other hand, worked at a pit up in Northumberland for a canny while, though he was originally from Wylam. So, he knew what was gannen on underground. If it hadn’t been for some toffee-nosed MP’s in London, who complained that he wasn’t clever enough to make such an important invention, speaking in Northumbrian as he did like, he would have won the two thoosand-poond prize they was offering and not Sor Humphrey. But for George, it was nowt but a minor setback. Of course, wor man would gan on to bigger and better things, and eventually outshine his rival.
I’m very proud of the fact that Queen Victoria horself came to christen me. She was on her way up to Balmoral in Scotland when they stopped hor train on me upper deck, halfway across the river. It was raining, and someone opened a window so she could do the official opening. I was told afterwards that the mayors of Newcastle and Gateshead were expecting hor for a slice of ‘Singin’ Hinny’ and a cup of tea.
But she didn’t stop, and more than a few people were very upset by Her Majesty’s seemingly bad manners. (Well, having gan to all that trouble to bake a cake for hor, you would be, wouldn’t you?) Anyway, the coonsil sent Buckingham Palace a bill for the party. They never paid it of course but as a token of hor esteem, Hor Royal Highness did bequeath the City of Newcastle a fine gift in hor will. A pair of hor best knickers!
People, carriages and horse-carts would cross back and forth all day long, preferring my nice level roadway instead of having to struggle up and down the steep lonnens on either bank. And then they took the owld stone bridge away and I was the only one left. For a while at least, until they started building more and more bridges and spoiled my view. Well, I didn’t mind the little Swing Bridge, he wasn’t nay bother and I used to love watching him swing open and close as the ships went by. And there used to be some ships, let me tell you. There were colliers, coming and going all day long to the big staithes at Derwenthaugh. And then there were the warships from Armstrong’s yard at Elswick, with muckle big guns and their sailors, smartly dressed in white uniforms, lined up along the decks. Eee, that was a sight to see.
Of course, it’s all very quiet noo and though I sometimes miss the hustle and bustle of the owld days, I think I like the peace and quiet. I certainly don’t miss all the black smoke and soot that was belched out of the trains and ships. Whey man, it’d get all ower me bonny painted girders. And as for me beautiful arches, whey they’d end up looking like the walls of a midden.
I’m a lot cleaner noo and I’ve had a bit of work done over the last couple of yors: replacement beams and more than a few timbers, you knaa, the usual things that have to be seen to as we get owlder. Aye, and they’ve also lightened me load by putting in what they call, a ‘one-way system’. I’ve got to tell you, hinny, it feels much better, but don’t say nowt to that googly-eyed, little gob down-river. I’ll never hear the last of it!