  By T.T.—To the old Tune. Whe’s like my Johnny, Sae leish, sae blithe, sae bonny, He’s foremost ’mang the mony Keel lads o’ Coaly Tyne; He’ll set or row so tightly, Or in the dance so sprightly, He’ll cut and shuffle sightly, ’Tis true—were he not mine. Weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row, That my laddie’s in: He wears a blue bonnet, A bonnet, a bonnet, He wears a blue bonnet, A dimple in his chin. He’s ne mair learning, Than tells his weekly earning, Yet reet frae wrang discerning, Tho’ brave, ne bruiser he; Tho’ he no worth a plack is, His awn coat on his back is, And nane can say that black is The white o’ Johnny’s ee. Each pay-day nearly, He takes his quairt right dearly, Then talks O, latin O,—cheerly, Or mavies jaws away; How caring not a feather, Nelson and he together, The springy French did lether, And gar’d them shab away. Were a’ kings comparely, In each I’d spy a fairly, An’ ay wad Johnny barly, He gets sic bonny bairns; Go bon, the queen, or misses, But wad for Johnny’s kisses, Luik upon as blisses, Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns. Wour lads, like their deddy, To fight the French are ready, But gie’s a peace that’s steady, And breed cheap as lang syne; May a’ the press gangs perish, Each lass her laddy cherish: Lang may the Coal Trade flourish Upon the dingy Tyne. Breet Star o’ Heaton, Your ay wour darling sweet’en, May heaven’s blessings leet on Your leady, bairns, and ye; God bless the King and Nation, Each bravely fill his station, Our canny Corporation, Lang may they sing wi’ me, Weel may the keel row, &c. |
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