As me and my marrow was putting the tram, The lowe it went out, and my marrow went wrang; You would have laugh’d had you seen the gam, The deil gat my marrow, but I gat the tram, Follow the horses, &c. Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, what dost thou think? I’ve broken my bottle, and spilt a’ my drink; I lost a’ my shin-splints among the great stanes, Draw me t’ the shaft, it’s time to gan hame. Follow the horses, &c. Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, where hast thou been? Driving the drift from the low seam, Driving the drift from the low seam: Had up the lowe, lad, deil stop out thy een! Follow the horses, &c. Oh! marrow, oh! marrow, this is wor pay week, We’ll get penny loaves and drink to our beek; And we’ll fill up our bumper, and round it shall go, Follow the horses, Johnny lad oh! Follow the horses, &c. There is my horse, and there is my tram; Twee horns full of greese will make her to gang; There is my hoggars, likewise my half shoon, And smash my heart, marrow, my putting’s a’ done. Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh! Follow them through my canny lad oh! Follow the horses, Johnny my lad oh! Oh lad ly away, canny lad oh! WALKER PITS. _Tune_--Off she goes. If I had another penny, I would have another gill; I would make the fidlers play The Bonny Lads of Byker Hill. Byker Hill and Walker Shore, Collery lads for ever more; Byker Hill and Walker Shore, Collery lads for ever more. When I cam to Walker wark, I had ne coat nor ne pit sark; But now aw’ve getten twe or three, Walker pit’s deun weel for me. Byker Hill and Walker shore, Collery lads for ever more; Byker Hill and Walker Shore, Collery lads for ever more. THE BONNY PIT LADDIE. The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie, The bonny pit laddie for me, O! He sits in his hole as black as a coal, And brings the white siller to me, O! The bonny pit laddie, the cannie pit laddie, The bonny pit laddie for me, O! He sits on his cracket, and hews in his jacket, And brings the white siller to me, O! THE PITMAN’s REVENGE AGAINST BUONAPARTE. Hae ye heard o’ these wondrous dons, That make this mighty fuss, man, About invading Briton’s land? I vow they’re wondrous spruce, man: But little do the Frenchmen ken About our loyal Englishmen; Our collier lads are for cockades, And guns to shoot the French, man. Toll loll de roll de roll de roll. Then to parade the pitmen went, Wi’ hearts both stout and strong, man; Gad smash the French, we are so strang, We’ll shoot them ev’ry one, man: Gad smash me sark if I would stick To tumble them a’ down the pit, As fast as I could thraw a coal, I’d tumble them a’ down the hole, And close her in aboon, man. Toll loll, &c.