A ballad
My lad he is a Collier Lad,
And a blithe, blithe soul is he,
And when a holiday comes around,
He’ll spend that day in glee;
He’ll tell his tale o’er a pint o’ ale,
And crack his joke, and bad
Must be the heart who 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 shim the green,
And bound as it were glad,
To hear the cry o’ victory
Salute the Collier Lad.
When 'gainst the wall they play the ball,
He’s never known to lag,
But up and down he gars it bowne,
Till all his rivals fag;
When deftly,—lo! he strikes a blow
Which gars them all look sad,
And wonder how it came to pass
They play’d the Collier Lad.
The quoits are out, the hobs are fix’d,
The first round quoit he flings
Enrings the hob; and lo! the next
The hob again unrings;
And thus he’ll play a summer’s day,
The theme o’ those who gad;
And youngsters shrink to bet their brass
Against 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;
Your one-two-three, with either knee
He’ll beat, and then, glee mad,
A summerset will crown the dance,
Danced by the 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;
That to the poor would ope the door
To share the last he had;
And many a secret blessing’s pour’d
Upon my Collier Lad.
He seldom goes to church, I own,
And when he does, why then,
He with a leer will sit and hear,
And doubt the holy men;
This very much annoys my heart,
But soon as we are wed,
To please the priest, I’ll do my best
To tame my Collier Lad.
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