The birds whistle sweet on the spray;
Now coal working lads, trim and airy,
To Newcastle town hie away.
Those married jog on with their hinnies,
Their canny bairns go by their side;
The daughters keep teazing their minnies
For new cloaths to keep up their pride:
They plead—Easter Sunday does fear them,
For, if they have nothing that’s new,
The Crow, spiteful bird! will besmear them;