Among the lot wor owd Sam Butt,
As fine as owd Lord Digby;
An’ owd Queer Doos, wi’ his streit shoes,
An’ wi’ him Joseph Rigby.
There’s Jimmy Gill, o’ Castle Hill,—
That gentleman wi’ t’stick,—
There’s Will an’ Sam, an’ young John Lamb,
An’ Ben an’ Earby Dick.
I scorn to lie—the reason why
It is a shame awm sure!
But among the job wor owd Joe Hob,
Behold! a perfect kewer.
I’d quite forgot, among the lot,
There too wor Pally Pickles,
Wi’ crinoline shoo walks so fine,
Shoo’s like a cat i’ prickles.
Bud to mi tale—aw mussant fail
I’ owt on this occasion—
Wi’ heead erect, an’ girt respect,
We march to Keighley Station.
Nah—all reight fain gat into t’train,
Owd Ned began to screeam;
Then Master Pratt doft off his hat,
An’ just pept aght at t’steeam.
This jovial band when they did land,
Got off the train so hearty,
For they all went, wi’ that intent,
To hev a grand tea-party!
The country foak did gape an’ luke,
To see us all delighted,
An’ ivvery one did say “Begum,
Aw wish awd been invited.”
’Tis joy to tell, they marched as well
As t’Scots did ower the border,
Owd Wellington an’ all his men
Ne’er saw such marchin’ order.
The lookers-on, to see them come,
Gat on ta t’second storey;
Reight dahn the park they did ’em mark,
Comin’ i’ their full glory.