The dead-house they reach'd, where his Lordship they found,
Pale, stretch'd on a plank, like themselves out of breath;
The Crowner and Jury were seated around,
Most gravely enquiring the cause of his death.
No haste did they seem in, their task to complete,
Aware that from hurry mistakes often rise;
Or wishful, perhaps, of prolonging the treat
Of thus sitting in judgment upon my Lord 'Size.

Now the Mansion-house Butler thus gravely depos'd :-
"My Lord on the terrace seem'd studying his charge;
And when (as I thought) he had got it compos'd,
He went down the stairs and examin'd the barge.
First the stem he survey'd, then inspected the stern,
Then handled the tiller, and look'd mighty wise;
But he made a false step when about to return,
And souse in the river straight tumbled Lord 'Size."

Now his narrative ended-the Butler retir'd,
Whilst Betty Watt, mutʼring (half drunk) thro' her teeth,
Declar'd, "in her breest great consarn it inspir'd,
That my Lord should sae cullishly come by his death."
Next a keelman was call'd on, Bold Archy his name,
Who the book as he kiss'd shew'd the whites of his
Then he cut an odd caper, attention to claim,
And this evidence gave them respecting Lord 'Size.

foolishly

eyes;

"Aw was setten the keel, wi' Dick Stavers an' Mat,
An' the Mansion-hoose Stairs we were just alangside,
When we a' three see'd sumthing, but didn't ken what,
That was splashing and labbering aboot i' the tide.
"It's a fluiker!" ki Dick; "No," ki Mat, "it's owre big,
"It luik'd mair like a skyat when aw furst see'd it rise:"
Kiv aw-for aw'd getten a gliff o' the wig-
Odds marcy! Wye, marrows, becrike it's Lord 'Size.

Sae aw huik'd him an' hawl'd him suin into the keel,
An' o'top o' the huddock aw rowl'd him aboot;
An' his belly aw rubb'd, an' aw skelp'd his back weel,
But the wayter he'd drucken it wadn't run oot.

prunded

Sae aw brought him ashore here, an' doctors, in vain,
Furst this way, then that, to recover him tries;

For

ye see there he's lying as deed as a stane,-
An' that's a' aw can tell ye about my Lord 'Size."

Now the Jury for close consultation retir❜d:
Some "Death accidental" were willing to find;
Some "God's visitation" most eager requir'd,
And some were for "Fell in the river" inclin'd:
But ere on their verdict they all were agreed,

My Lord gave a groan, and wide open'd his eyes;
Then the coach and the trumpeters came with great speed,
And back to the Mansion-house carried Lord 'Size.

BOB CRANKY's 'SIZE SUNDAY.
By John Selkirk.

Set to Music by THOMAS TRAIN, of Gateshead.

HO'WAY and aw'll sing thee a tune, mun, 'Bout huz see'n my Lord at the town, mun,

Aw

w seer aw was smart, now

Aw'll lay thee a quart, now

Nyen' them aw cut a dash like Bob Cranky.

When aw pat on my blue coat that shines se,
My jacket wi' posies se fine see,

My sark sic sma' threed, man,

My pig-tail se greet, man!

Od smash! what a buck was Bob Cranky.

Blue stockings, white clocks, and reed garters,
Yellow breeks, and my shoon wi' lang quarters,
Aw myed wour bairns cry,

Eh! sarties! ni! ni!

Sic verra fine things had Bob Cranky.

Aw went to awd Tom's and fand Nancy,
Kiv aw, Lass, thou's myed to my fancy;

Aw like thou as weel
As a stannin pye heel,

Ho'way to the town wi' Bob Cranky.

As up Jenny's backside we were bangin,
Ki' Geordy, How! where are ye gannin?
Weyt' see my lord 'Sizes,

But ye shanna gan aside us,

For ye're not half se fine as Bob Cranky.

Ki' Geordy, We leve i' yen raw, weyet,,
I' yen corf we byeth gan belaw, weyet,
At a' things aw've play'd,

And to hew aw'm not flay'd,
Wi' sic in a chep as Bob Cranky.

afrond

Bob hez thee at lowpin and fingin,
At the bool, foot-ball, clubby, and swingin:
Can ye jump up and shuffle,

And cross owre the buckle,

When ye dance? like the clever Bob Cranky.

Thou naws, i' my hoggars and drawers,
Aw'm nyen o' your scarters and clawers:
Fra the trap door bit laddy,

T' the spletter his daddy,

Nyen handles the pick like Bob Cranky.

So, Geordy, od smash my pit sarik!
Thou'd best had thy whisht about warik,
Or aw'll sobble thy body,

And myek thy nose bloody,

If thou sets up thy gob to Bob Cranky.

Nan laugh'd-t'church we gat without 'im; The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew'd 'em! Smasht a keel-bully roar'd,

Clear the road! Whilk's my lord?

Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.

Aw lup up an' catch'd just a short gliff
O' lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,
Wi' the little bit mannies,

Se fine and se canny,

Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.

Then away we set off to the yell-house,
Wiv a few hearty lasses and fellows,
Aw tell'd owre the wig,

Se curl'd and se big;

For nyen saw'd se weel as Bob Cranky.

Aw gat drunk, fit, and kick'd up a racket,
Rove my breeks and spoil'd a' my fine jacket:
Nan cry'd and she cuddled

My hinny, thou's fuddled,

Ho'way hyem now, my bonny Bob Cranky.
So we stagger'd alang fra the town, mun,
Whiles gannin, whiles baith fairly down, mun:
Smash, a banksman or hewer,

No not a fine viewer,

Durst jaw to the noble Bob Cranky.

What care aw for my new suit, a' tatters,
Twe black een-od smash a' sic maters!
When my lord comes agyen, mun,
Aw'l strive every byen, mun,

To bang a' wor Concern, ki' Bob Cranky.

O' the flesh and breed day when wour bun', mun, Aw'l buy clase far bonnyer than thon, mun;

For, od smash my neavel!

As lang as wour yebble,

Let's keep up the day, ki' Bob Cranky.

BOB CRANKY's COMPLAINT.

ODD smash! 'tis hard aw can't rub dust off,
To see ma lord wi' wig se fine toss'd off,
But they mak a sang man

Aw can't tell how lang man,

All myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky.

Ma blue coat and pigtail's my awn, wyet!
And when to Newcassel I gang, wyet!
Aw like to shaw town folks,
Whe se oft ca' us gowks,

They ar❜n't se fine as Bob Cranky.

If aw fin the Owther, as sure as a'm Bob, A'll mak him sing the wrang side o' his gob, A'll gi'm sic sobbling

A'll set him hyem hobbling,

For myeking a gam o' Bob Cranky.

A'll myek his noddle as reed as ma garters;
A've a lang stick, as weel as lang quarters,
Whilk a'll lay ow'r his back,

'Till he swears ne'er to mak

Ony mair sangs o' Bob Cranky.

Aw wonder the maist how he did spy,
What was dyun, when nobody was by-
Some Conj'rer he maun be,

Sic as wi' Punch aw did see,
Whilk myed the hair stand o' Bob Cranky.

Our viewer sez aw can't de better,
Than send him a story cull letter.
But writing a'll let rest;

The pik fits ma hand best,

A pen's owr sma for Bob Cranky.

Nan, whe a'll marry or its very lang,

Sez, "Hinny, din't mind the cull fellow's sang, "Gif he dis se agyan,

"Our schyul maister's pen

"Shall tak pairt wi' ma bonny Bob Cranky."

"Ize warrn't, gif aw weer my pillease, "An ma hat myed of very sma strees; "He'll be chock full o' spite,

"An about us will write,

"An say Ize owre fine for Bob Cranky."