Sae aw huik’d him an’ hawl’d him suin into the keel, An’ o’top o’ the huddock aw rowl’d him aboot; An’ his belly aw rubb’d, an’ aw skelp’d his back weel, But the wayter he’d drucken it wadn’t run oot. Sae aw brought him ashore here, an’ doctors, in vain, Furst _this_ way, then _that_, to recover him tries; For ye see there he’s lying as _deed_ as a stane,-- An’ that’s a’ aw can tell ye about my _Lord ’Size_.” Now the Jury for close consultation retir’d: Some “_Death accidental_” were willing to find; Some “_God’s visitation_” most eager requir’d, And some were for “_Fell in the river_” inclin’d: But ere on their verdict they all were agreed, My Lord gave a groan, and wide open’d his eyes; Then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed, And back to the Mansion-house carried _Lord ’Size_. BOB CRANKY’s ’SIZE SUNDAY. _By John Selkirk._ Set to Music by THOMAS TRAIN, of Gateshead. Ho’way and aw’ll sing thee a tune, mun, ’Bout huz see’n my Lord at the town, mun, Aw seer aw was smart, now Aw’ll lay thee a quart, now Nyen’ them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky. When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se, My jacket wi’ posies se fine see, My sark sic sma’ threed, man, My pig-tail se greet, man! Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky. Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters, Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi’ lang quarters, Aw myed wour bairns cry, Eh! sarties! ni! ni! Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky. Aw went to awd Tom’s and fand Nancy, Kiv aw, Lass, thou’s myed to my fancy; Aw like thou as weel As a stannin pye heel, Ho’way to the town wi’ Bob Cranky. As up Jenny’s backside we were bangin, Ki’ Geordy, How! where are ye gannin? Weyt’ see my lord ’Sizes, But ye shanna gan aside us, For ye’re not half se fine as Bob Cranky. Ki’ Geordy, We leve i’ yen raw, weyet, I’ yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet, At a’ things aw’ve play’d, And to hew aw’m not flay’d, Wi’ sic in a chep as Bob Cranky. Bob hez thee at lowpin and flingin, At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin: Can ye jump up and shuffle, And cross owre the buckle, When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky. Thou naws, i’ my hoggars and drawers, Aw’m nyen o’ your scarters and clawers: Fra the trap door bit laddy, T’ the spletter his daddy, Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky. So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik! Thou’d best had thy whisht about warik, Or aw’ll sobble thy body, And myek thy nose bloody, If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky. Nan laugh’d--t’church we gat without ’im; The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em! Smasht a keel-bully roar’d, Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord? Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.