There's sec a gang in our town,
The deevil cannot wrang them,
And cud yen get tem put i' prent,
Aw England cuddent bang them:
Our dogs e'en beyte aw decent fwok,
Our varra naigs they kick them,
And if they nobbet ax their way,
Our lads set on and lick them.

Furst wi' Dick Wiggem we'll begin,
The teyney, greasy wobster:
He's got a gob frae lug to lug,
And neb leyke onie lobster;
Dick' weyfe, they say, was Branton bred,
Her mudder was a howdey,
And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim,
She's off to Jwohnnie Gowdey.

But as for Jwohnnie, silly man,
He threeps about the nation,
And talks o' stocks and Charley Fox,
And meks a blusteration;
He reads the paper yence a week,
The auld fwok geape and wonder--
Were Jwohnnie king we'd aw be rich,
And France mud e'n knock under.

Lang Peel the laird's a dispert chap,
His weyfe's a famish fratcher--
She brays the lasses, starves the lads,
Nae bandylan can match her:
We aw ken how they gat their gear,
But that's a fearfu' stwory,
And sud he hing on Carel Sands,
Nit yen wad e'er be sworry.

Beane--breker Jwohn we weel may neame,
He's tir'd o' wark, confound him!
By manglin limbs and streenin joints,
He's meade aw cripples roun him:
Mair hurt he's duin than onie yen
That iver sceap'd a helter;
When sec leyke guffs leame decent fwok,
It's teyme some laws sud alter.

The schuilmaister's a conjuror,
For when our lads are drinkin,
Aw macks o' tricks he'll dui wi' cairds,
And tell fwok what they're thinkin;
He'll glowr at maps and spell hard words,
For hours and hours together,
And in the muin he kens what's duin--
Nay he can coin the weather!

Then theer's the blacksmith wi' ae ee,
And his hawf--witted mudder,
'Twad mek a deed man laugh to see
Them glyme at yen anudder; A three--quart piggen full o' keale,
He'll sup, the greedy sinner,
Then eat a cow'd--lword leyke his head,
Aye, onie day at dinner.

Jack Marr, the hirplin piper's son,
Can bang them aw at leein;
He'll brek a lock, or steal a cock,
Wi' onie yen in bein:
He eats guid meat, and drinks strang drink,
And gangs weel graith'd o' Sunday,
And weel he may, a bonny fray
Com out last Whissen--Monday.

The doctor he's a parfet pleague,
And hawf the parish puzzens;
The lawyer sets fwok by the lugs,
And cheats them neist by duzzens;
The parson swears a bonny stick
Amang our sackless asses;
The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores
O' canny country lasses.

Theer's twenty mair, coarse as neck beef,
If yen hed teyme to neame them;
Left--handed Sim, slape--finger'd Sam,
Nae law cud iver teame them;
Theer's blue nebb'd Watt, and ewe--chin'd Dick,
Weel wordy o' the gallows--
O happy is the country seyde
That's free frae sec leyke fellows!