  By John Selkirk. Set to Music by Thomas Train, of Gateshead. Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun, ’Bout huz see’n my Lord at the town, mun, Aw seer aw was smart, now Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now Nyen’ them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky. When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se, My jacket wi’ posies se fine see, My sark sic sma’ threed, man, My pig-tail se greet, man! Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky. Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters, Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi’ lang quarters, Aw myed wour bairns cry, Eh! sarties! ni! ni! Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky. Aw went to awd Tom’s and fand Nancy, Kiv aw, Lass, thou’s myed to my fancy; Aw like thou as weel As a stannin pye heel, Ho’way to the town wi’ Bob Cranky. As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin, Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin? Weyt’ see my lord ’Sizes, But ye shanna gan aside us, For ye’re not half se fine as Bob Cranky. Ki’ Geordy, We leve i’ yen raw, weyet, I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet, At a’ things aw’ve play’d, And to hew aw’m not flay’d, Wi’ sic in a chep as Bob Cranky. Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin, At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin: Can ye jump up and shuffle, And cross owre the buckle, When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky. Thou naws, i’ my hoggars and drawers, Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers: Fra the trap door bit laddy, T’ the spletter his daddy, Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky. So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik! Thou’d best had thy whisht about warik, Or aw’ll sobble thy body, And myek thy nose bloody, If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky. Nan laugh’d—t’church we gat without ’im; The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em! Smasht a keel-bully roar’d, Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord? Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky. Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff, Wi’ the little bit mannies, Se fine and se canny, Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky. Then away we set off to the yell-house, Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows, Aw tell’d owre the wig, Se curl’d and se big; For nyen saw’d se weel as Bob Cranky. Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket, Rove my breeks and spoil’d a’ my fine jacket: Nan cry’d and she cuddled My hinny, thou’s fuddled, Ho’way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky. So we stagger’d alang fra the town, mun, Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun: Smash, a banksman or hewer, No not a fine viewer, Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky. What care aw for my new suit, a’ tatters, Twe black een—od smash a’ sic maters! When my lord comes agyen, mun, Aw’l strive every byen, mun, To bang a’ wor Concern, ki’ Bob Cranky. O’ the flesh and breed day when wour bun’, mun, Aw’l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun; For, od smash my neavel! As lang as wour yebble, Let’s keep up the day, ki’ Bob Cranky. |
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