There’s plenty o’ lads i’ beàth Lamplugh an’ Dean As yabble as thee, an’ as weel to be seen; An’ I med tak’ my pick amang o’ there aboot— Does t’é think I’d ha’e thee, than? Hut, Jwohnny, git oot!
What? Nūt yan amang them ’at likes mé sa weel? Whey, min—there’s Dick Walker an’ Jonathan Peel Foorsettin’ mé ola’s i’ t’ lonnins aboot, Beàth wantin’ to sweetheart mé—Jwohnny, git oot!
What?—Thou will hev a kiss?—Ah, but tak’t if thou dar! I tell the’, I’ll squeel, if thou tries to cŭ’ nār. Tak’ care o’ my collar—Thou byspel, I’ll shoot. Nay, thou sha’n’t hev anudder—Noo Jwhonny, git oot!
Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny—Thou’s tew’t me reet sair; Thou’s brocken my comb, an’ thou’s toozelt my hair. I willn’t be kiss’t, thou unmannerly loot! Was t’ere iver sec impidence! Jwohnny, git oot!
Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny—I tell the’, be deùn. Does t’e think I’ll tak’ up wid Ann Dixon’s oald sheùn? Thou ma’ gā till Ann Dixon, an’ pu’ hur aboot, But thou s’alln’t pu’ me, sèa—Jwohnny, git oot!
Well! That’s sent him off, an’ I’s sworry it hes; He med ken a lass niver means hoaf ’at she says. He’s a reet canny fellow, howiver I floot, An’ it’s growin o’ wark to say Jwohnny, git oot!”
My fadder said “Nay”—an’ my mudder said “Niver!” When Willie furst telt them we wantit to wed; We mud part—they said, beàth—part at yance an’ for iver, An’ they deavet me to deeth aboot foats ’at he hed. A sailor was Will, forret, free-tonguet, an’ funny, An’ gi’en till o’ manner o’ teulment was he; Rayder lowce i’ religion, an’ careless o’ money, But dear was my wild, thowtless Willie to me.
His life seemed meàd up of arrivin’s an’ sailin’s— Rough hardship at sea, an’ fair daftness at heàm. I cry’t ow’r his danger—I pray’t ow’r his failin’s, An’ offen forgev what I cudn’t but bleàm. An’ many a frind, an’ relation, an’ neighbour Brong hints an’ queer teàls aboot Will to poor me; But neighbours an’ frinds gat the’r pains for the’r labour, For t’mair they misco’t him t’mair thowte on was he.
An’ t’ upshot of o’ the’r fine hints an’ advices Was ’at, ya neet, weel happ’t i’ Will’s greet sailor cwoat, We dreàv, afoor dayleet, to Foster Penrice’s, An’ slip’t ow’r till Annan i’ t’ Skinburneese bwoat. An’ theer we wer’ weddit, i’ their way o’ weddin’;— I dudn’t hafe like’t, but they said it wad dee; An’ I dār-say it may’d—for a lass ’at was bred in Their ways—but it wasn’t like weddin’ to me.