The Newcassel chaps fancy they’re clever,
And are vauntin and braggin for ever;
But they’ll find themselves wrang,
If they think they can bang,
At soug’rin, the Bonny Geatsiders.
The Gen’ral sall see they can loup dykes,
Or mairch through whins, lair whooles, and deep sykes;
Nay, to soom (at a pinch)
Through Tyne, wad’nt flinch
The corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders.