Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet

Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet, Come geas a wag o’ thee paw; I knew thee when thi heead wor black, Bud nah its az white as snow; Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim, An’ all thi kith an’ kin; An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar, For t’ sake o’ ould long sin, Jim Wreet, For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.

It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, Sin oud Joe Constantine— An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me, An’ other friends o’ thine, Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase, Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here; An’ t’ Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer, Jim Wreet; To his brown October beer.

An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, That kept the Old King’s Arms; Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms; An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim, Sometimes hev chang’d the string, An’ with a merry chorus join’d, We’ve made yond tav’ren ring, Jim Wreet, We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, As past away sin then; When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art, Cud boast her musick men; Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim, An’ that tha’s sense to knaw; Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake, Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet, Jim Wreet, Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.