Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet

Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw; I knew thee when thy heead wor black, Bud nah it's white as snow; A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim, An' all thy kith an' kin; An' hoping tha'll ha' monny more, 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 owd Joe Constantine— An' Daniel Acroyd, thee, an' me, An other friends o' thine, Went up ta sing at Squire's house, Not a hauf-a-mile fra here; An' t'Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer— Jim Wreet, To his brown October beer.

An' owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, 'At kept the Old King's Arms; Whear all t'church singers used ta meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms; An' thee an' me amang 'em, Jim, Sometimes hev chang'd the string, An' with a merry chorus join'd, We've made yon tavern ring, Jim Wreet, We've made yon tavern ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, Hev past away sin' then; Then Keighley in Appolo's Art, Could boast her trusty men; But music nah means money, Jim, An' that tha's sense to knaw; But just fer owd acquaintance sake. Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw.