  By J.S. of Gateshead. Tune—“Paddy’s Wedding.” Lads! myek a ring, An’ hear huz sing The sport we had at Swalwell-o; Wour merry play, O’ th’ Hoppen day? Howay! marrows, an’ aw’ll tell you-o. The sun shines warm on Whickham bank, Let’s aw lye down at Dolly’s-o, An’ hear ’bout mony a funny prank Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o. There was Sam, O zoons! Wiv’s pantaloons, An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o; An’ Willy, thou, Wi’ th’ jacket blue, Thou was the varra Bobby-o: There was knack knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit, An’ hopper-a—s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o: Great Tom was there wi’ H—ple’s awd coat, An’ bucksheen’d Bob fra Stella-o. When we wour drest, It was confest, We shemm’d the cheps fra Newcassel-o: So away we set To wour town gyet, To jeer them a’ as they pass’d us-o; We shouted some, and some dung down— Lobstrop’lus fellows, we kick’d them-o: Some culls went hyem, some crush’d to town, Some gat about by Whickham-o. The spree com on— The hat was won By carrot-pow’d Jenny’s Jacky-o: What a fyess, begok! Had buckle-mouth’d Jock, When he twin’d his jaws for the backy-o! The kilted lasses fell tid pell mell, Wi’—Tally-i-o the grinder-o— The smock was gi’en to slavering Nell; Ye’d dropp’d had ye been behind her-o. Wour dance began, Awd buck-tyuth’d Nan, An’, Geordy, thou’d Jen Collin-o: While the merry black, Wi’ monny a crack, Set the tamborine a rolling-o. Like wour forge hammer we bet se true, An shuk Raw’s house se soundly-o: Tuff canna cum up wi’ Crowley’s crew, Nor thump the tune se roundly-o. Then Gyetside Jack, Wiv’s bloody back, Wad dance wi’ goggle-ey’d Mally-o; But up cam Nick, An’ gav him a kick, An’ a canny bit kind of a fally-o: That day a’ Hawk’s blacks may rue,— They gat monny a verra sair clanker-o; Can they de ouse wi’ Crowley’s crew, Frev a needle tiv a anchor-o? What’s that to say To the bonny fray We had wi’ skipper Robin-o: The keel bullies a’, Byeth great and sma’, Myed a bu——ly tide o’ the Hoppen-o. Gleed Will cry’d, Ma-a! up lup awd Frank, An’ Robin that marry’d his dowter-o: We hammer’d their ribs like a anchor shark They fand it six weeks after-o. Bald pyet Jone Carr Wad hev a bit spar, To help his marrows away wid-o: But poor awd fellow, He’d getten ower mellow, So we down’d byeth him and Davy-o: Then Petticoat Robin jumpt up agyen, Wiv’s gully to mercykree huz a’, But Willanton Dan laid him flat wiv a styen: Hurro! for Crowley’s crew, boys a’! Their hash was sattled, So off we rattled, An’ jigg’d it up se hearty-o? Wi’ monny a shiver, An’ lowp se clever, Can Newcassel turn out sec a party-o? When, wheit dyun ower, the fidlers went, We stagger’d a hint see merry-o: An’ thro’ wour town, till fairly spent, Roar’d—Crowley’s Crew an’ Glory-o! |
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