[T’west Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches it fine art line, bud t’musick aw think licks t’lump, especially abaht Haworth an’ Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorkshire in his toime. It is said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all tother Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an’ that willant due up at London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood; there’s oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an’ oud Jim Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersmass toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr warm e bed. Bud there’s another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when there’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals;—’an t’ best ale an’ crotchets mixt, that’s the time fer musick.]

Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet,
Come geas a wag o’ thee paw;
I knew thee when thi heead wor black,
Bud nah its az white as snow;
Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim,
An’ all thi kith an’ kin;
An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar,
For t’ sake o’ ould long sin,
Jim Wreet,
For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.

It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,
Sin oud Joe Constantine—
An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me,
An’ other friends o’ thine,
Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase,
Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here;
An’ t’ Squire made us welcome
To his brown October beer,
Jim Wreet;
To his brown October beer.

An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,
That kept the Old King’s Arms;
Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet,
When they hed sung ther Psalms;
An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim,
Sometimes hev chang’d the string,
An’ with a merry chorus join’d,
We’ve made yond tav’ren ring,
Jim Wreet,
We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,
As past away sin then;
When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art,
Cud boast her musick men;
Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim,
An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;
Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake,
Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,
Jim Wreet,
Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.