Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff, Wi’ the little bit mannies, Se fine and se canny, Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky. Then away we set off to the yell-house, Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows, Aw tell’d owre the wig, Se curl’d and se big; For nyen saw’d se weel as Bob Cranky. Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick’d up a racket, Rove my breeks and spoil’d a’ my fine jacket: Nan cry’d and she cuddled My hinny, thou’s fuddled, Ho’way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky. So we stagger’d alang fra the town, mun, Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun: Smash, a banksman or hewer, No not a fine viewer, Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky. What care aw for my new suit, a’ tatters, Twe black een--od smash a’ sic maters! When my lord comes agyen, mun, Aw’l strive every byen, mun, To bang a’ wor Concern, ki’ Bob Cranky. O’ the flesh and breed day when wour bun’, mun, Aw’l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun; For, od smash my neavel! As lang as wour yebble, Let’s keep up the day, ki’ Bob Cranky. BOB CRANKY’s COMPLAINT. Odd smash! ’tis hard aw can’t rub dust off, To see ma lord wi’ wig se fine toss’d off, But they mak a sang man Aw can’t tell how lang man, All myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky. Ma blue coat and pigtail’s my awn, wyet! And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet! Aw like to shaw town folks, Whe se oft ca’ us gowks, They ar’n’t se fine as Bob Cranky. If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a’m Bob, A’ll mak him sing the wrang side o’ his gob, A’ll gi’m sic sobbling A’ll set him hyem hobbling, For myeking a gam o’ Bob Cranky. A’ll myek his noddle as reed as ma garters; A’ve a lang stick, as weel as lang quarters, Whilk a’ll lay ow’r his back, ’Till he swears ne’er to mak Ony mair sangs o’ Bob Cranky. Aw wonder the maist how he did spy, What was dyun, when nobody was by-- Some Conj’rer he maun be, Sic as wi’ Punch aw did see, Whilk myed the hair stand o’ Bob Cranky. Our viewer sez aw can’t de better, Than send him a story cull letter. But writing a’ll let rest; The pik fits ma hand best, A pen’s owr sma for Bob Cranky. Nan, whe a’ll marry or its very lang, Sez, “Hinny, din’t mind the cull fellow’s sang, “Gif he dis se agyan, “Our schyul maister’s pen “Shall tak pairt wi’ ma bonny Bob Cranky.” “Ize warrn’t, gif aw weer my pillease, “An ma hat myed of very sma strees; “He’ll be chock full o’ spite, “An about us will write, “An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky.” “Sure, Bobby,” says she, “his head’s got a crack,” “Ne maiter,” sed I, an gov her a smack. “Pilleases are tippy, “Like shugar’s thy lippy, “And thou shalt be wife to Bob Cranky.”