Classic Poem

Call the horse, marrow,
For I can call nane.
The heart of my belly
Is hard as a stane.
As hard as a stane
And as round as a cup.
Call the horse, marrow,
Till my hewer comes up.

Me and my marrow
And Christy Crawhall
Will play any three in the pit
At the football.
At the football
And at the coal-tram,
We'll play any three in the pit
For twelve-pence a gam.

Hewing and putting
And keeping in the sticks,
I never so laboured
Since I took the picks.
I'm going to my hewer's house
On the Fell Side.
He hews his coals thick
And drives his bords wide.

The rope and the roll
And the long ower-tree,
The devil's flown o'er the heap
With them all three.
The roll hangs across the shaft;
De'il but it fall
And stick in the thill,
Twenty-four horned owls
Run away with the mill.

I'm going to my hewer
Wherever he may be.
He's hipt of a buddock
And blind of an e'e.
He's blind of an e'e
And lame of a leg.
My uncle Jack Fenwick
He kissed my aunt Peg.