When th' shot wur paid, an th' drink wur done,
Up Fennel-street, to th' church for fun,
We doanced loike morris-doancers dun,
To th' best o' aw my knowledge:
So th' job wur done, i' hauve a crack;
Boh eh! what fun to get th' first smack;
So neaw, my lads, 'fore we gwon back,
Says aw, "We'n look at th' College."
We see'd a clock-case first, good laws!
Where Deoth stonds up wi' great lung claws;
His legs, an wings, an lantern jaws,
They really look't quite feorink.
There's snakes an watchbills, just like pikes,
At Hunt an aw th' reforming tikes,
An thee, an me, an Sam o' Mikes,
Once took a blanketeerink.
Eh! lorjus days, booath far an woide,
Theer's yards o' books at every stroide,
Fro' top to bothum, eend, an soide,
Sich plecks there's very few so:
Aw axt him iv they wur'n to sell,
For Nan, loikes readink vastly well;
Boh th' measter wur eawt, so he could naw tell,
Or aw'd a bowt her Robinson Crusoe.
Theer's a trumpet speyks and maks a din,
An a shute o' clooas made o' tin,
For folk to go a feightink in,
Just like thoose chaps o' Boney's;
An theer's a table carved so queer,
Wi' as mony planks as days i'th year,
An crinkum-crankums here an theer,
Like th' clooas-press at my gronny's.
Theer's Oliver Crumill's bombs and balls,
An Frenchmen's guns they'd tean i' squalls,
An swords, as lunk as me, o' th' walls,
An bows an arrows too, mon:
Aw didno moind his fearfo words,
Nor skeletons o' men an burds;
Boh aw fair hate th' seet o' greyt lung swords,
Sin th' feight at Peterloo, mon.
We see'd a wooden cock likewise;
Boh dang it, mon, these college boys,
They tell'n a pack o' starin' loies,
As sure as teaw'rt a sinner:
"That cock, when it smells roast beef, 'll crow,"
Says he; "Boh," aw said, "teaw lies, aw know,
An aw con prove it plainly so,
Aw've a peawnd i' my hat for th' dinner."
Boh th' hairy mon had miss'd my thowt,
An th' clog fair crackt by th' thunner-bowt,
An th' woman noather lawmt nor nowt,
Theaw ne'er seed loike sin t'ur born, mon.
Theer's crocodiles, an things, indeed,
Aw colours, mak, shap, size, an breed;
An if aw moot tell toan hauve aw see'd,
We moot sit an smook till morn, mon.
Then deawn Lung Millgate we did steer,
To owd Mike Wilson's goods-shop theer,
To bey eawr Nan a rockink cheer,
An pots, an spoons, an ladles:
Nan bowt a glass for lookink in
A tin Dutch o'on for cookink in;
Aw bowt a cheer for smookink in,
And Nan axed th' price o' th' cradles.
Then th' fiddler struck up "Th' Honey Moon,"
An off we set for Owdam soon:
We made owd Grizzle trot to th' tune,
Every yard o' th' way, mon.
At neet, oytch lad an bonny lass,
Laws! heaw they doanc'd an drunk their glass;
So toyst wur Nan an me, by th' mass,
At we lee till twelve th' next day, mon.