Na th’ dinner bein ower thay shifted all th’ tins, Then th’ chairman stud up like a man on his pins, And proposin’ a bumper to England’s gooid Queen, He telled what a kind-hearted monark shoo’d been, At shoo’d trained up her family in her own loyal way, ’At th’ Crown Prince wur th’ best rider i’ Haworth to-day. Th’ toast it being honnered, then the chairman went on, And tell’d wat gert wonders oud England hed dun; As for invading armies shoo’d nothing to fear As long as th’ bold 42nd wur thear, But he’d leave that aside, for he’d summat to say Abaat his attachment to Haworth Railway, So, he says, be silent all th’ folk i’ this hall, So, as any one on yo can hear a pin fall, And John o’ Bill Olders, just shut up thi prate, For I’ve summat to say an I mun let it aat; For I mun hev silence whatever betide, Or I’ll cum aat o’th’ loom and sum on ya hide. Three years hes elapsed an’ we’re going on th’ fourth, Sin we first started th’ railway fra Keighley to Haworth; Wat wi dreamin’ by neet an’ workin’ by day, It’s been to poor Haworth a dearish railway, An’ monny a time I’ve been aat a patience, Wi th’ host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations. Th’ first do at we hed wur th’ kaa swallowing th’ plan, An’d then wur bad luck an’ misfortunes began; For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us anuther, All went on wrong an’ we’d a gert deal o’ bother; He must ha’ been dreamin, a silly oud claan, For three fields o’ Doodle’s he never put daan. But Jack Metcauf put up wi’ that for he sed he’d allah ’At th’ misfortune wur caused wi th’ greedy oud kaa; So be set all his navvies agate in a hig, An’ thay upset a chapel at th’ Paper Mill Brig; Na th’ folk dropp’d thair lugs an wur daan o’th’ Railway, But we gat ower that bit wi’ hevin’ to pay. Nah Ike finished off in his dashin’ oud way, An’ th’ folk wur all shaatin’, hear, hear! and hurra, For heigher and heigher the band it wur playin’, An’ nobody cud hear a word thay wur sayin’, For th’ clappin’ an’ shaatin’ it lasted awhile, For I clapped wal mi hands wur as sore as a bile. Nah, I’ll tell yo wat, folk, yo tawk abaat storms, An’ thunner an’ leetning, an’ dreadful alarms, But th’ applause thare wur wen he’d dun, Thare wur niver nowt heard like it under th’ sun, For wat wi laad music, huraaing an’ cheers, Th’ folk wur so suited thay gaaped at both ears. As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I knaw For thart one o’th’ best drivers at iver I saw, An’ nobody can grumble at wat tha hes dun, If this bus driven wearisome race it is run; For who cud grumble ha fine wur thur cloth, To ride up to Haworth wi’ oud Jonny Broth.