Were a’ kings comparely, In each I’d spy a fairly, An’ ay wad Johnny barly, He gets sic bonny bairns; Go bon, the queen, or misses, But wad for Johnny’s kisses, Luik upon as blisses, Scrimp meals, caff beds, and dairns. Wour lads, like their deddy, To fight the French are ready, But gie’s a peace that’s steady, And breed cheap as lang syne; May a’ the press gangs perish, Each lass her laddy cherish: Lang may the Coal Trade flourish Upon the dingy Tyne. Breet Star o’ Heaton, Your ay wour darling sweet’en, May heaven’s blessings leet on Your leady, bairns, and ye; God bless the King and Nation, Each bravely fill his station, Our canny _Corporation_, Lang may they sing wi’ me, Weel may the keel row, &c. BONNY KEEL LADDIE. My bonny keel laddie, my canny keel laddie, My bonny keel laddie for me O! He sits in his keel as black as the deil, And he brings the white money to me O. Ha’ye seen owt o’ my canny man, An’ are ye shure he’s weel O? He’s geane o’er land wiv a stick in his hand, T’ help to moor the keel O. The canny keel laddie, the bonny keel laddie, The canny keel laddie for me O; He sits in his huddock, and claws his bare buttock, And brings the white money to me O. THE LITTLE P.D. ’Twas between Hebbron and Jarrow, There cam on a very strang gale, The skipper look’d out o’ th’ huddock, Crying, “Smash, man, lower th’ sail! Smash, man, lower the sail, Or else to the bottom we’ll go:” The keel and a’ hands wad been lost, Had it not been for Jemmy Munro. Fal lal, &c. The gale blew stranger an’ stranger, When they cam beside the Muck House, The skipper cry’d out--“Jemmy Swinger,” But still was as fear’d as a mouse; P.D. ran to clear th’ anchor, “It’s raffl’d!” right loudly he roar’d,-- They a’ said the gale wad sink her, If it was’nt seun thrawn owrboard. The laddy ran sweaten, ran sweaten, The laddy ran sweaten about; Till the keel went bump ’gainst Jarrow, And three o’ th’ bullies lap out; Three o’ th’ bullies lap out, And left nyen in but little P.D. Who ran about stamping and crying-- “How! smash, Skipper, what mun a’ dee?” They all shouted out fra the kee, Steer her close in by th’ shore; And then thraw th’ painter to me, Thou cat feac’d son of a wh--e. The lad threw the painter ashore, They fasten’d her up to th’ kee, But whe knaws how far she meit gane, Had it not been for little P.D. Then into th’ huddock they gat, And th’ flesh they began to fry, They talk’d o’ the gale as they sat, And how a’ hands were lost--very nigh. The skipper roar’d out for a drink, P.D. ran to bring him the cann, But odsmash! mun! what d’ye think?-- He coup’d a’ the flesh out o’ the pan! Fal lal, &c. MA’ CANNY HINNY.