My lad he is
a collier lad And ere the lark awakes He’s up and away to spend the day Where daylight never breaks; But when at last the day has pass’d, All washed and cleanly clad, He courts his Nell who loveth well Her handsome collier lad.
There’s not
his match in smoky Shields Newcastle never had A lad more tight or trim or bright Than is my collier lad.
| Tho’ doomed to labour underground A merry lad is he And when a holiday comes round He’ll spend the day in glee; He’ll tell his tale o’er a pint of ale And crack a joke, and bad Must be the heart that loveth not To hear the collier lad. At bowling matches on the green He ever takes the lead For none can swing his arm and fling With such a pith and speed; His bowl is seen to skim the green And bound as if it’s glad To hear the cry of victory Salute the collier lad. | When in the dance he doth advance The rest all sigh to see How he can spring and kick his heels When they a-wearied be; He does 1-2-3 with either knee And then – you’d think he‘s mad - A heel-o’er-head to finish Does my dancing collier lad. Besides a will and pith and skill My laddie owns a heart That never once would suffer him To act a cruel part; To the poor he’d ope the door To share the last he had And many a secret blessing’s poured Upon my collier lad. |