  Tune—Bob Cranky. Come marrows, we’ve happen’d to meet now, Sae our thropples together we’ll weet now; Aw’ve myed a new sang, And to sing ye’t aw lang, For it’s about the Bonny Geatsiders. Of a’ the fine Volunteer corpses, Whether footmen, or ridin o’ horses, ’Tween the Tweed and the Tees, Deel hae them that sees Sic a corpse as the Bonny Geatsiders. Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an wheel sae? Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae? Nay, for myeking a crack, Through England aw’l back The Corpse of the Bonny Geatsiders. When the time for parading nigh hand grows, A’wash their sel’s clean i’ the sleek trough; Fling off their black duddies, Leave hammers and studdies, And to drill—run the Bonny Geatsiders. To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin, On Permanent Duty they’re gannin; And sune i’ th’ papers, We’s read a’ the capers, O’ the corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders. The Newcassel chaps fancy they’re clever, And are vauntin and braggin for ever; But they’ll find themselves wrang, If they think they can bang, At soug’rin, the Bonny Geatsiders. The Gen’ral sall see they can loup dykes, Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes; Nay, to soom (at a pinch) Through Tyne, wad’nt flinch The corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders. Some think Billy Pitt’s nobbit hummin, When he tells about Bonnepart cummin; But come when he may, He’ll lang rue the day He first meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders. Like an anchor shank, smash! how they’ll clatter ’im, And turn ’im, and skelp ’im, and batter ’im, His banes sall by pring, Like a fryin pan ring, When he meets wi’ the Bonny Geatsiders. Let them ance get ’im into their taings weel, Nae fear but they’ll give ’im his whaings weel; And to Hazlett’s And there in chains hing ’im; What a seet for the Bonny Geatsiders! Now, marrows, to shew we’re a’ loyal, And that, wi’ the King and Blood Royal, We’ll a’ soom or sink, Quairts a piece let us drink, To the brave and the Bonny Geatsiders. |
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