TUNE: The Wild Hills o' Wannie

NOO if ye'll pae itenshin a moment or two,
Aw'll tell ye a storee aw naw to be true.
It a small collry village tha caul Marla Hill,
For to tell the suiam storee thar's men liven still.
It's abeot twenty ducks thit went oot for te play
Upon a aud pastor, one fine sumor's day;
But the farmer ispied them, en teuk them wholesale,
En fund them fresh lodgings in Marla Hill Jail.

Noo the pastor tha plaid on wis worthlis en bare.
Thor wasint a blaid a green grass growen thair;
Tha had been trespasen, en coudint deni'd,
But, like uthor prisnors, tha shud a been tried.
Wivoot judge or joory, he teuk them away,
He nivor once ax't if tha had owt to say;
If he'd geen them a chance, tha wid awl geten bail,
But he teuk them is prisnors to Marla Hill Jail.

Noo in Marla Hill prisin tha hadint been lang,
Till tha ax'd one anuther wat had tha dun rang,
Thit tha sud be captord en closely confined
In a dark dreery dungin be Marla Hill hind.
Tha nue vary weel thit tha warnit it yem,
En ta be see ill-treated tha thowt 'twis a shem;
It muaiks me sorry to tell ye th' tale
Aboot th' young prisnors in Marla Hill Jail.

For days tha were lock'd up, buaith hungry en drie,
But to brick th' door opin tha thowt tha wid trie
We thor nebs en thor claws tha sune muaid a road throo
Wen th' hind wis it wark wi his horses and plue.
Sixteen of th' twenty got nicely away,
Tha quack'd en tha shoot'd, is much is ta sae:
“0 liberty's sweet," en kept waggin' thor tail,
En that's hoo tha gat oot a Marla Hill Jail.

Thare wis still fower left in this miserable den,
Th' twenty belanged to three differint men;
So tha met en tha thowt th' best way for to dae
'Twis for them to gan doon th' Land Steward to see.
The went, en wis welcom'd, he tret them so kind,
He laid all th' blame on the Maria Hill hind;
Wile telling thor storee th' Steward grue pale,
Wen tha teld him thor ducks wis in Marla Hill Jail.

Wen leeven, the Steward to them he did say:
"Tell th' hind th' ducks must be awl set away."
Tha thowt 'twis awl reet wen th' Steward tha seed,
But th' next news th' had ta pay ninepence a-heed.
Thar'll be ducks on th' pastor wen th' Steward en Hind
Is laid doon belaw, tike the rest of mankind:
Tha'll ne sent tiv a place fer ta weep en ta wail,
Buaith th' guvnor en turn-kee of Marla Hill Jail.


TUNE: Robin Thomson's Smiddy, O.

ONE mornen wen aw went ta wark,
  Th' seet wis most exsiten,
Ad ard a noise, en luckt eroond,
  En we de ye think wis fiten?
Aw stud amais'd en at thim gaisd,
  Te see thim in such raiges;
For aw nivor seed e row like that
  Between th' Brockwil caiges.

Wor aud caige sais, "Cum over th' gaits,
  Becaws it's mei intenshin
Te let th' see wethor thoo or me
  Is th' best invenshin."
The' neuin been rais'd, teuk off his clais,
  Then at it thae went dabin;
Th' blud wis runen doon th' skeets,
  En past th' weimin's cabin.

Wor aud caige sais, “Let's heh me clais,
  Thoo th[ow]t thit thoo cud flae me;
But if aw'd been is young is thoo
  Aw's certain aw cud pae th'."
Th' paitint nockt hees ankel off,
  En th' buaith ad cutten fuaices;
Th' shifters rapt three for te ride,
  So th' buaith went to thor plaices.

Wen ganen up en doon th' shaft.
  Th' paitint caige did threetin
For te tuaik wor audin's life
  If thae stopt it meeten;
Wor aud cage bauld oot is thae pas't;
  "Thoo nasty, dorty paitint,
Rub thee ies eguain th' skeets -
  Aw think thoo's ardly wakinit."

Th' paitint te wor aud caige sais:
  "Altho' aw be e strangor,
Aw kin work me wark is weel is thoo,
  An free th' men freh daingor:
Noo, if th' rope shud brick we me,
  Aud skinny jaws, just watch us,
Thoo'l see me clag on te th' skeets,
  Fer aw's full e springs en catches.

Wor and caige te th' paitint sais:
  "Aw warnd thoo think thoo's clivor,
Becaws thi'v polished thoo we paint,
  But thoo'l not last for ivor;
Th' paint on thoo 'ill weer awae,
  En then thoo's lost thei beuty;
Th' nivor painted me at awl,
  En still aw've deun me deuty."

Th' braiksmin browt thim buaith to bank,
  Th' mischeef for te sattil;
Thae fit freh five o'clock te six,
  En th' paitint won th' battle.
It teuk th' braikemin half e shift
  To clag thim up we plaistors;
Wor aud caige sent hees noatece in,
  But just to vext th' maistors.

SPOKEN:-Thor matcht to fite eguain, but not under Qucensbury Rools. Wor and caige fancies fiten we th' bare fist. Aw'll let ye naw wen it comes off. It 'ill heh to be kept quiet; if the bobby gets to naw, thae'll be buaith teun, becaws th' winit aloo bare fist fitein noo. Keep on lucken in th' Christian Arald, en yil see wen it comes off, en ware. Thor's six to fower on the auden noo. Bet nowt to that dae, en aw'll see ye in the field; it's a cheet.


TUNE: Th' Pride of Petticote Lane

IT wis in November en aw nivor will forget
Th' polises en th' candymen it Oakey's hooses met;
Johny, th' bellmin, he wis thare, squinten roond eboot;
En he plaic'd three men it ivory hoose to torn th' pitmen oot.

Oh wat wad aw dee if ad th' poower me sel,
Aw wid hang th' twenty candymen en Johny thit carry's th' bell.
Thare th' went freh hoose to hoose to put things on th' road,
But mind th' didn't hort thorsels we liften hevy loads;
Sum wid carry th' poker oot, th' fendor, or th' rake,
If th' lifted two it once is wis a greet mistake.

Sum e theese dandy-candy men wis drest up like e cloon
Sum ad hats wivoot e flipe, en sum wivoot e croon;
Sum ad nee laps ipon thor cotes but thare wis one chep warse
Ivory time he ad to stoop it was e laffible farse.


Thare wis one chep ad nee sleeves nor buttins ipon bees cote,
Enuthor ad e bairns hippin lapt eroond his throte.
One chep wore e pair e breeks thit belting tiv e boi,
One leg wis e sort iv e tweed, th' tuthor wis cordyroi.


Next thare cums th' maistor's, aw think thae shud think shem
Depriven wives an familys of a comfortible yem.
But wen thae shift freh ware thae liv, aw hope thail gan te th' well,
Elang we th' twenty candy men, en Johny thit carry's th' bell.