Upon the COALPITS about NEWCASTLE upon Tine.  

ENGLAND's a perfect World; has Indies too.  
Correct your Maps; Newcastle is Peru.  
Let th'haughty Spaniard triumph, till 'tis told  
Our sooty Minerals purify his Gold.  
This will sublime and hatch th'abortive Oar  
When the Sun tires, and Stars can do no more.  
No Mines are current unrefined and gross:  
Coals make the Sterling, Nature but the Dross.  
For Metals (Bacchus-like) two Births approve,  
heavens heats the Semele, and ours the Jove.  
Thus Art doth polish Nature; 'tis her Trade:  
So every Madam has her Chambermaid.   

Who'd dote on Gold? a thing so strange and odd,  
'Tis most contemptible when made a God.  
All sins and mischiefs thence have rise, and swell.  
One Indies more would make another Hell.  
Our Mines are innocent, nor will the North  
Tempt poor Mortality with too much worth.  
They're not too precious; rich enough to fire  
A Lover, yet make none Idolater.  
The moderate value of our guiltless Oar  
Makes no man Atheist, nor no woman Whore.   

Yet why should hallowed Vesta's glowing shrine  
Deserve more honour than a flaming Mine?  
These pregnant Wombs of Heat would fit be  
Then a few Embers, for a Deity.  
Had he our Pits, the Persian would admire  
No Sun, but warms Devotion at our Fire.  
he'd leave the trotting Whipster, and prefer  
This profound Vulcan 'bove that Wagoner.  
For, wants he Heat or Light? would he have store  
Of both? 'tis here: and what can Suns give more?  
Nay, what's that Sun, but (in a different name)  
A Coal-pit Rampant, and a Mine on Flame?  
Then let this Truth reciprocally run,  
" The Sun's heavens Coalery, and Coals our Sun.   

A Sun that scorches not, locked up i'th' Deep;  
The Bandog's chained, the Lion is asleep.  
That tyrant Fire, which uncontrolled doth rage,  
Here's calm and hushed, like Bajazet i'th' Cage.  
For in each Coal-pit there doth (couchant) dwell  
A muzzled Aetna, and an innocent Hell.   

Kindle the Cloud, you'll Lightning then descry,  
Then will a Day break from the gloomy sky:  
Then you'll unbutton though December blow,  
And sweat i'th' midst of Iceicles and Snow:  
'Tis Dog-days then at Christmas: thus is all  
The Year made June and Equinoctial.   

If Heat offend, our Pits afford us Shade.  
Thus Summer's Winter, Winter Summer made.  
What need we Baths? what need we Bower or Grove?  
A Coal-pit's both a Venti-duct and Stove.   

Such Pits and Caves were Palaces of old:  
Poor Inns (God wots) yet in an Age of Gold.  
And (what would now be thought a strange Design)  
To build a House, was then to Undermine.  
People lived under ground: and happy dwellers,  
Whose jovial Habitations were all Cellars!  
Those Primitive times were innocent, for then  
Man, who turned after Fox, but made his Den.   

But see a Fleet of Rivals trim and fine,  
To court the rich Infanta of our Mine!  
Hundreds of grim Leander's dare confront,  
For this loved Hero, the loud Hellespont.  
'Tis an Armado Royal doth engage  
For some new Helen with this Equipage:  
Prepared too (should we their Addresses bar)  
To force their Mistress with a ten-yeare's war:  
But that our Mine's a common Good, a Joy  
Not made to ruin, but every our Troy.  
Thus went those gallant Heroes of old Greece,  
(The Argonauts) in quest o'th' Golden Fleece.  
But O, these bring it with them, and conspire  
To pawn that Idol for our Smoke and Fire.  
Silver's but Ballast, this they bring ashore,  
That they may treasure up our better Oar.  
For this they venture Rocks and Storms, defy  
All the extremities of Sea and Sky.  
For the glad purchase of this precious Mould  
Cowards dare Pirates, Miser's part with Gold.  
Hence 'tis, that when the doubtful Ship sets forth,  
The knowing Needle still directs it North:  
And Nature's secret wonder (to attest  
Our Indies worth) discards both East and West.   

For 'tis not only Fire commends this Spring;  
A Coal-pit is a Mine of every thing.  
We sink a Jacks-of-all-trade Shop, and sound  
An inversed Burse, an Exchange under ground.  
This Prot●us-earth converts to what you'd ha'ce;  
Now you may woven to Silk, then coined to Plate:  
Or (what's a Metamorphosis more dear)  
Dissolve it, and 'twill melt to London Beer.  
For whatsoever that gaudy City boasts,  
Each Month derives to these attractive Coasts.  
We shall exhaust their Chamber, and devour  
The Treasures of Guildhall, the Mint, the Tower.  
Our Staiths their mortgaged Streets will soon divide;  
Blathon own Cornhill, Stella share Cheapside.  
Thus will our Coal-pit's Charity and Pity  
At distance under-Mine and Fire the City.  
Should we exact, they'd pawn their Wives, and treat  
To swap those Coolers for our sovereign Heat.  
'Bove Kisses and Embraces Fire controls:  
No Venus heightens like a Peck of Coals.  
Medea was the Drudge of some old Sire,  
And Aesons bathe a lusty Sea-coal Fire.  
Chimneys are old men's Mistresses, there inns  
A modern Dalliance with their meazled Shins.   

To all Defects the Coal-heap brings a Cure;  
Gives Life to Age, and Raiment to the Poor.  
Pride first wore ; Nature disdains Attire:  
She made us Naked 'cause she gave us Fire.  
Full Wharves are Wardrobes; and the Taylour's charm  
Belongs to th' Collier, He must keep us warm.   

The quilted Alderman with all's Array,  
Finds but cold comfort on a Frosty day.  
Gird, wrapped and muffled, yet with all that stir,  
Scarce warm when smothered in his drowsy Fur.  
Not proof against keen Winter's Batteries,  
Should he himself wear all's own Liveryes▪  
But Chil-blains under Silver Spurs bewails,  
And in embroidered Buck-skins blows his Nails.   

Rich Meadows and full Crops are elsewhere found;  
We can reap Harvest from our Barren ground.  
The bald, parched Hills that circumscribe our Tine,  
Are no less fruitful in their hungry Mine.  
Their unfledged tops so well content our Palates,  
We envy none their Nosegays and their Salads.  
A gay, rank Soil (like a young Gallant) grows,  
And spends itself, that it may wear fine .  
Whilst all its worth is to its back confined;  
Ours wears plain Outsides, but is richly Lined.  
Winter's above, 'tis Summer underneath;  
A trusty Morglay in a Rusty Sheath.  
As precious Sables sometimes interlace  
A wretched Serge, or Grogram Cassock-case.  
Rocks own no Spring, are pregnant with no Showers;  
Crystal and Gems grow there in stead of Flowers:  
In stead of Roses, Beds of Rubies sweet;  
And Emeralds recompense the Violet.  
Dame Nature, not (like other Madams) wears  
(Where she is bare) Pearls on her Breast or Ears.  
What though our Fields present a Naked sight?  
A Paradise should be an Adamite.   

The Northern Lad his Bonny Lass throws down,  
And gives her a Black Bag for a Green Gown.   
FINIS.