  ’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow, There cam on a very strang gale, The skipper look’d out o’ th’ huddock, Crying, “Smash, man, lower th’ sail! Smash, man, lower the sail, Or else to the bottom we’ll go:” The keel and a’ hands wad been lost, Had it not been for Jemmy Munro. Fal lal, &c. The gale blew stranger an’ stranger, When they cam beside the Muck House, The skipper cry’d out—“Jemmy Swinger,” But still was as fear’d as a mouse; P.D. ran to clear th’ anchor, “It’s raffl’d!” right loudly he roar’d,— They a’ said the gale wad sink her, If it was’nt seun thrawn owrboard. The laddy ran sweaten, ran sweaten, The laddy ran sweaten about; Till the keel went bump ’gainst Jarrow, And three o’ th’ bullies lap out; Three o’ th’ bullies lap out, And left nyen in but little P.D. Who ran about stamping and crying— “How! smash, Skipper, what mun a’ dee?” They all shouted out fra the kee, Steer her close in by th’ shore; And then thraw th’ painter to me, Thou cat feac’d son of a wh—e. The lad threw the painter ashore, They fasten’d her up to th’ kee, But whe knaws how far she meit gane, Had it not been for little P.D. Then into th’ huddock they gat, And th’ flesh they began to fry, They talk’d o’ the gale as they sat, And how a’ hands were lost—very nigh. The skipper roar’d out for a drink, P.D. ran to bring him the cann, But odsmash! mun! what d’ye think?— He coup’d a’ the flesh out o’ the pan! Fal lal, &c. |
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