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Here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed, oald lad!

Here t’ soat an’ t’ sugger an’ t’ tea—

Seàp, starch, steàn-blue, an’ t’ bottle to rub,

An’ t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me,

Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me, me, me,

Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me.

I’ll niver git heàm while Bobby’s my neàm,

But maffle an’ sing till I dee, dee, dee,

But maffle an’ sing till I dee!

“Weel, weel,” says I, “If I is oot o’ my senses—I IS oot o’ my senses, an’ that’s oa’ aboot it,—but

Loavins what’ll Betty think, Betty think, Betty think,

Loavins what’ll Betty think if Bobby bide away?

She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink,

She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink this varra market-day.

She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass,

She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter brass, but willn’t thrimle lang.

For Bobby lad thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce,

For Bobby lad, thū’s hūr to feàce; she’ll m’appen change thy sang.