MY love at Seaton Terrace dwells,
A hale and hearty wight,
Who lilts away the summer day,
Also the winter night;
The merriest bird with rapture stirr’d,
Could never yet surpass
The melody awaken’d by
The Seaton Terrace lass!
Chorus.—Her like is not in hall or cot;
And you would vainly pass
From Tweed to Wear for one to peer
The Seaton Terrace lass.
She’s graceful as a lily-wand,
Right modest too is she,
And then ye’ll search in vain the land
To find a busier bee;
Like silver clear her iron gear,
Like burnished gold, the brass—
For tidiness there’s none to peer
The Seaton Terrace lass.
Chorus.—Her like is not, etc.
More restless than a clucking hen
About her, Minnie stirs;
‘Go, jewel, knit your fancy net,
And I will scour the floors.’
‘Enjoy the day, a-down the way
Where greenest grows the grass;
No help I need,’ replies with speed
The Seaton Terrace lass.
Chorus—Her like is not, etc.
She’ll knit or sew, she’ll bake or brew—
She’ll wash the clothes so clean,
The very daisy pales beside
Her linen on the green;
Then what she’ll do, with ease she’ll do,
And still her manner has
A charm would gar a stoic woo
The Seaton Terrace lass.
Chorus—Her like is not, etc.
Discomfort flies her dark brown eyes,
And when the men folk come
All black and weary from the pit,
They find a welcome home:
Her brothers tease her, and a pride,
The father feeleth as
Again he meets, again he greets
The Seaton Terrace lass.
Chorus—Her like is not, etc.
When day is past and night at last
Begins to cloud the dell,
She’ll take her skiel and out she’ll steal,
And meet me at the well;
Then, oh! how fleet the moments sweet—
Yet fleeter shall they pass,
That night the Bebside laddie weds
The Seaton Terrace lass.
Chorus—Her like is not in hall or cot,
And vainly would you pass
From Tweed to Wear for one to peer
The Seaton Terrace lass.
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...
