So Jonny, mi lad, don’t thee mak onny fuss, I’ shutting thi horses, or sellin’ thi Bus; For if th’ railway hes dun thee, thare’s one thing I knaw Tha mud mak o’th’ oud Bus a stunnin’ peep show, An’ if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles, I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles. An’ if any one else hes a complaint to mak, Doant let em say it behint yor back, But cum up to th’ front an’ dunnot be flaid, If he’s owt aat o’ pockets I’ll see at he’s paid; For all theas small trubbles I want to decide, An’ them at’s been wrong’d to be satisfied. For all native exiles are welcum once more To cum back agean to thair awn native shore; Even theas at hed hookt it an’ left it i’th’ lurk, An’ wur flaid at they’d awet if thay happened to work, Can cum back agean to thair awn native place, If thay think thay can fashion to show up thair face. So strike up yor music an’ give it sum maath, An’ welcum all nashuns fra north to th’ saath; Th’ black fra th’ east, an’ th’ red fra th’ west, For thay sud be welcum as weel as th’ rest, An’ all beyond th’ Tiber, th’ Baltic, or Rhine, Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d th’ Worth Valley Line.