  In the fine town of Sunderland which stands on a hill, Which stands on a hill most noble to see, There’s fishing and fowling all in the same town: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. There’s dancing and singing also in the same town, And many hot scolds there are in the week; ’Tis pleasant indeed the market to see, And the young maids that are mild and meek. The damsels of Sunderland would, if they could, Welcome brave sailors, when they come from sea, Build a fine tower of silver and gold: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. The young men of Sunderland are pretty blades, And when they come in with these handsome maids, They kiss and embrace, and compliment free: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. In Silver-street there lives one Isabel Rod, She keeps the best ale the town can afford, For gentlemen to drink till they cannot see: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. Sunderland’s a fine place, it shines where it stands, And the more I look on it the more my heart warms; And if I was there I would make myself free: Every man to his mind, but Sunderland for me. |
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