Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride
O' chaps an' maidens vur an' wide;
They can't keep up a merry tide,
But Bob is in the middle.
If merry Bob do come avore ye,
He'll zing a zong, or tell a story;
But if you'd zee en in his glory,
Jist let en have a fiddle.
Aye, let en tuck a crowd below
His chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow,
He'll dreve his elbow to an' fro',
An' play what you do please.
At Maypolen, or feaest, or feaeir,
His eaerm wull zet off twenty peaeir,
An' meaeke em dance the groun' dirt-beaere,
An' hop about lik' vlees.
Long life to Bob! the very soul
O' me'th at merry feaest an' pole;
Vor when the crowd do leaeve his jowl,
They'll all be in the dumps.
Zoo at the dance another year,
At Shillinston or Hazelbur',
Mid Bob be there to meaeke em stir,
In merry jigs, their stumps!