To yo' who read as weel as run,
Eawr little town's a treat,
An' if yo' want to see some fun
Come reawnd a' th' Market neet,
For if yo'll view eawr Market Square,
An' walk abeawt a while
Yo'll see some things to mak' yo' smile.
They'll sell yo' owt, eawr Market folk--
They're cute, as I con tell--
An' if yo' dunno' watch these blokes
Yo'll soon get sowd yo'rsel'.
They sell blackleads 'at winno' write,
Herb-beer 'at winno pop;
There's apples, too, yo' conno' bite,
Wi' th' ripe 'uns o' on t' top.
There's kettle-stands 'at winno' ston',
Gowd rings 'at are no' gowd;
There's Stilton cheese wi' whiskers on,
Cock chickens ten year owd;
There's Champagne too 'at's nobbut sham,
There's bacon 'at con creep,
There's turnips labelled apple jam,
An' lamb 'ats turned to sheep;
We han' a Doctor Quack an' o';
He'll cure yo' in a flash;
He'll ease yo' o' yo'r gouty toe,
Yo'r colic, or yo'r cash;
He'll diagnose yo'r aches and pains,
He'll mak' yo' think yo'r bad.
An' then he'll shift yo'r muddled brains,
An' those yo' never had;
He'll put yo' reet fro' top to toe,
He'll cure yo'r corns an' warts.
He'll shift yo' warchin' yed an' o'
Browt on wi' suppin' quarts;
He's shifted boils i' barrowfuls--
It's true, yo' con tell,
He's scores o' testimonials
He's written eawt hissel:
He's stuff for makkin' whiskers grow
Wheer whiskers never grew;
It's printed on a papper, so,
Of course, it must be true.
So come an' visit Doctor Quack--
He looks a gradely gawk--
An' if he canno' cure yo'r back,
It's grand to yer him talk.
We han' a fortune-teller too!
He's clever yo' con see,
He'll tell yo' o' yo'r beawn to do,
An' who yo'r wife 'ull be:
He'll warn to be careful as
Yo' tak' a walk i'th' park:
He'll say yo'll meet a gypsy lass
Who's rather tall an' dark;
He'll say yo'll ha' some childer too--
He fancies yo'll ha' three--
But if he knows yo'n kids enoo,
He'll tell yo' when they'll dee:
He has blue goggles o'er his een,
An' wears a cap an' gown;
He coes hissel "Professor Green.
The Seer of world renown":
But then he's one o' th' best o' liars--
The beggar's killed wi' cheek--
He carries bobbins up at Squires
For nineteen bob a week.
So do come up an' stop a bit,
An' see eawr little teawn;
I'll bet yo'r takken up wi' it,
Unless yo'r takken down:
An' bring yo'r wives an' childer too;
Eh, mon: it's quite a treat:
But lads, whatever else yo' do,
Yo' mun' come a' th' Market neet.