Tho' the sober shake the head,
And drink water, boys, instead,
A'a, Johnny! a'a, Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!
But come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee.
A little word 'at's easy sed,
Sometimes may heal a smart;
Who'd be a slave, when Freedom smiling stands,
To strike the gyves from of his fettered hands?
Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw hav'nt a meg,
But aw'm free as a burd, an' aw shak a loise leg;
'Aw'm havin' a smook bi misel',
Net a soul here to spaik a word to,
Lord John and John Lord were both born on a day,
But their fortunes were different quite;
Mistress Moore is Johnny's wife,
An' Johnny is a druffen sot;
Thou grand old Church of England!
Though others raise their voice,
Young Joh'nny-o'-th'-Heights wur a frolicsome blade,
But as dacent a lad as e'er hondled a spade;
For close on a year, aw'v bin courtin',
Wi' a lass, eh, so tender an' true;
Be gradely, lads, one wi’ another!—'
We should get a lot better along
Yo'll see him donn'd up in his fustian,
Wi' a smile on his breet, honest face ;
Ther's a grond little spot in this owd teawn uv eawrs,—
A pratty an' cosy retreat,
Theaw'rt welcome, Prince, as fleawers i' May,
To eawr little village!
It seems no mooar nor tuthri year,
Sin' th' day 'at we wur wed!
To look at, ther's nowt mich abeawt it,
Nor is it invitin' to th' e'e ;
No deawt yo've yerd speyk uv Owd Turpin,
' At used to live up at Pell Mell;
Ov all th' enjoyments' at sweeten man's life,
Ther's nooan can come up to a sweet tempered wife;
They may talk of pure love but its fleeting at best;
Let them ridicule gold if they will;
All kinds of songs I've heard folks sing,
Of things in every nation;
Here's to Burgess!—good owd Burgess!—
Conqueror o' th' Channel tide!
Aw've a snug little cot, an' a sweet-tempered wife,
To help me an' cheer me throo th' journey o' life;
We're ramblin' reawnd th' owd spot agen,—
Th' owd favourite spot uv o';
Booath for rest an' recreation,
Broadfield Park enjoys reneawn;
It's Kesmas agen !—an' ther's joy-notes i'th' bells,
As they ring eawt o'er th' hard-crusted snow ;
Well, what are ta bringin' us, like, when theaw comes ?—
We're feelin' quite anxious to know ;
Aw've bin watchin' th' Whit-Frida' processions,—
Th' big event uv o' th' year in eawr teawn';
Owd Ailse-o'-Yeb's lee varra ill,
For weeks hoo'd kept hur bed;
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