There pitmen, with baskets and gay posey waistcoats, Discourse about nought but whee puts and hews best: There keelmen, just landed, swear may they be stranded, If they’re not shav’d first while their keel’s at the _Fest_; With a face of coal dust, would frighten one almost, Thro’ off hat and wig, while they usurp the chair; While others stand looking, and think it provoking, But, for the insult, to oppose them none dare.
When under the chin, Sir, she tucks the cloth in, Sir, Their old quid they’ll pop in the pea-jacket cuff; And while they are sitting, do nought but keep spitting, And looking around with an air fierce and bluff: Such tales as go round, Sir, would be sure to confound, Sir, And puzzle the prolific brain of the wise; But when she prepares, Sir, to take off the hair, Sir, With lather, she whitens them up to the eyes.
No sooner the razor is laid on the face, Sir, Then painful distortions take place on the brow; But if they complain, Sir, they’ll find it in vain, Sir, She’ll tell them there’s nought but what _Patience_ can do; And as she scrapes round ’em, if she by chance wound ’em, They’ll cry out as tho’ she’d bereav’d them of life, “’Od smash your brains, woman! I find the blood’s coming, “I’d rather been shav’d with an au’d gully knife!”
For all they can say, Sir, she still rasps away, Sir, And sweeps round their jaw, the chop torturing tool; Till they in a pet, Sir, request her to whet, Sir: But she gives them for answer, “Sit still you pist fool!” For all their repining, their twisting and twining, She forward proceeds till she’s mown off the hair; When finish’d, cries, “There Sir;” then straight from the chair, Sir, They’ll jump, crying, “Daresay you’ve scrap’d the bone bare!”
Lads! myek a ring, An’ hear huz sing The sport we had at Swalwell-o; Wour merry play, O’ th’ Hoppen day? Howay! marrows, an’ aw’ll tell you-o. The sun shines warm on Whickham bank, Let’s aw lye down at Dolly’s-o, An’ hear ’bout mony a funny prank Play’d by the lads at Crowley’s-o.
There was Sam, O zoons! Wiv’s pantaloons, An’ gravat up owre his gobby-o; An’ Willy, thou, Wi’ th’ jacket blue, Thou was the varra Bobby-o: There was knack knee’d Mat, wiv’s purple suit, An’ hopper-a--s’d Dick, a’ yellow-o: Great Tom was there wi’ H--ple’s awd coat, An’ bucksheen’d Bob fra Stella-o.