Some says that Sir Cuddy deserves all the blyem,
For lettin the ships up the watter—
That brought ower the Cholera frev its awn hyem,
And some says that myed little matter;
But as woman's the root of all evil, ye see,
(At least, all my life aw hev thought it,)
Aw rather believe, as it's been tell'd to me,
That it was one Mall Airey (Malaria) that brought it.

This Chol'ra's the queerest thing e'er had a nyem,
If one may believe what they're talking;
It sometimes gets haud o' folks when they're at hyem,
And sometimes when they're out a walking:
Wey, my neybour of eighty, that deed t'other day,
Folks thought that 'twas nature that fail'd him;
But a doctor chep happ'ning to come by that way,
Swore down thump 'twas the Chol'ra that ail'd him.

Thur doctor cheps prent all the lees that they've tell'd;
Ony nonsense—they never will mis't;
My cheek wi' the tuith-wark hez getten all swell'd,
And aw's warn't they'll haed down i' their list:
Aw never was chol'ric, but quiet, aw's sure,
Tho' wi' fear aw's grown sweaty and clammy;
So smoke this wi' brumston to myek all secure,
Aw's your servant, A Sunderland Jammy.

THE COBBLER O' MORPETH—(Cholera Morbus.)

By John M'Lellan.

The Cobbler o' Morpeth myeks sic noise,
He frights the country round, sirs;
That if yen i' the guts hez pain,
By the Plague they think he's doom'd, sirs.
It was but just the tother day,
A Skipper, when at Sheels, sirs,
Drank yell till he cou'd hardly see,
Or ken his head frae heels, sirs.
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Wi' much ta dee he reach'd his hyem,
But hoo, aw canna tell ye;
When thunnering at the door he cries,
And blubbers out 'Wife Nelly—
Oh Nell, maw guts are varra bad,
Aw'm sartin aw shall dee, now,
For that d——d plague that's killing a',
Th' Cobbler o' Morpeth's in me, now.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

'The Cobbler o' Morpeth! whe is he?
Hez he brak frae the jail, now?'—
'Hout no, ye fule, Jack Russ he's caw'd,
An' kills folks by wholesale, now.
Somehow he creeps up the back way;
Aye it's true as deeth, maw Nelly—
For now he's dancin thro' and thro',
And up and down maw belly.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.

Tom sigh'd and moan'd, and kick'd and groan'd,
Wi' mony a writhe and start, sirs,
And swore that for a new lapstane,
The Cobbler had ta'en his heart, sirs.
He blether'd 'Nell, now divent ye hear
His rumbling and his raking,
He twists and twines maw tripes sae sair,
Sure o' them he's wax-ends making.'
Bow, wow, wow, &c.