Wor gardens grow just nothing now,
The crops won't multiply;
Wor mouths, it's thowt, will suin hev nowt
But Cookson's Alkali.
Wor ships hev got a sad dry rot,
In spite of "anti-dry;"
For Kyan's wash, and such like trash,
Can't cope wiv Alkali.
Then suin there'll be a shipless sea—
No sail will meet the eye;
Wor masts and spars, and jolly tars
Will strike to Alkali.
Wor houses soon will tummel doon,
And flat as fluicks they'll lie—
They'll cut their sticks, as sure as bricks,
Wi' this sad Alkali.
A man, I swear't, is now half marr'd
Wi' smoke, he's got sae dry;
He's lost his sap, and ruin'd, peer chap,
By Cookson's Alkali.
It's true, indeed, wor wives still breed,—
But, see their tiny fry!—
They're nowt, peer things, but legs and wings,
And all from Alkali.
For dandy blades, and dapper maids,
De nought but sob and sigh;
They're forc'd to pad, their shape's sae bad,
And all wi' Alkali.
Wor wither'd crops, and lantern chops,
Are proofs nyen can deny,
That we are cuik'd, and fairly buik'd,
By Cookson's Alkali.
So, now, farewell to swipes and yell,
And breed and beef, good bye!
We'll get nae mair awd English fare,
For this d——d Alkali.
And when we're gyen, beneath a styen
Wor cawd remains will lie,
A prey, alas! to acid gas,
Produc'd by Alkali.