TUM RINDLE.
Air—“Robin Tamson’s Smithy.”
Then, Mally, reitch my Sunday shoon, To rom my bits o’ toes in; An’ hond mo th’ jug, fro’ top o’th oon,— An’ let mo dip my nose in! An’, come, an’ fill it up again; An’ dunnot look so deawldy; There’s nought can lick a marlock, when One’s brains are gettin’ meawldy.
Aw’ll laithe a rook o’ neighbour lads,— Frisky cowts, an’ bowd uns; An’ let ’em bring their mams an’ dads; We’n have it pranked wi’ owd uns? An’ th’ lads an’ lasses they sha’n sing An’ fuut it, leet an’ limber; An’ Robin Lilter, he shall bring His merry bit o’ timber!
An’ Joe shall come, an’ Jone, an’ Ben; An’ poor owd limpin’ ’Lijah; An’ Mall, an’ Sall, an’ Fan, an’ Nan, An’ curly-pated ’Bijah; An’ gentle Charlie shall be theer; An’ little Dick, the ringer; An’ Moston Sam,—aw like to yer A snowy-yedded singer!
Aw’ll poo mi gronny eawt o’th nook, An’ send for Dolly Maybo’, For, when hoo’s gradely donned, hoo’ll look As grand as th’ queen o’ Shayba; An’ little Nell shall doance wi’ me,— Eawr Nelly’s yung an’ bonny; An’ when aw’ve had a doance wi’ thee, Aw’ll caper wi’ my gronny!
Then, Mally, fill it up again; An’ dunnot look so deawldy; There’s nought can lick a marlock, when One’s brains are gettin’ meawldy! We’re yung an’ hearty; dunnot croak Let’s frisk it neaw, or never; So, here’s good luck to country folk An’ country fun, for ever!