Mistress Moore is Johnny’s wife,
An’ Johnny is a druffen sot;
He spends th’ best portion ov his life
I’th beershop wi’ a pipe an’ pot. 
At schooil together John an’ me
Set side by side like trusty chums,
An’ niver did we disagree
Till furst we met sweet Lizzy Lumbs. 
At John shoo smiled,
An’ aw wor riled;
Shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me
Her bonny e’en
Aw’ve seldom seen
Sin’ that sad day shoo slighted me.

Aw’ve heeard fowk say shoo has to want,
For Johnny ofttimes gets o’th spree;
He spends his wages in a rant,
An’ leeaves his wife to pine or dee. 
An’ monny a time aw’ve ligged i’ bed,
An’ cursed my fate for bein poor,
An’ monny a bitter tear aw’ve shed,
When thinkin ov sweet Mistress Moore. 
For shoo’s mi life
Is Johnny’s wife,
An’ tho’ to love her isn’t reet,
What con aw do,
When all th’ neet throo
Aw’m dreeamin ov her e’en soa breet.

Aw’ll goa away an’ leeave this spot,
For fear ’at we should iver meet,
For if we did, as sure as shot
Awst throw me daan anent her feet. 
Aw know shoo’d think aw wor a fooil,
To love a woman when shoo’s wed,
But sin’ aw saw her furst at schooil,
It’s been a wretched life aw’ve led. 
But th’ time has come
To leeave mi hooam,
An’ th’ sea between us sooin shall roar,
Yet still mi heart
Will niver part
Wi’ th’ image ov sweet Mistress Moore.

Long befoor he’d done th’ chaps had begun tawkin, some abaat politics an some abaat Knursticks, an’ when he sat daan th’ cheerman wor th’ only quiet chap i’ th’ lot, an’ he wor ommost asleep; but Mosslump comforted hissen wi’ whisperin to me ’at classical mewsic wor varry little thowt on, an’ after a sigh, a sup, a shake ov his head, an’ another leet for his pipe, he sat daan evidently detarmined not to be suited wi’ owt i’ th’ singin way that neet.  After th’ cheerman had wakken’d up, two or three called for “Cocky,” an’ this time he gate up withaat ony excuses, an’ although he did rock backards an’ forrads like a clock pendlum th’ wrang end up, yet aw must say he entered life an’ soul into what he had to do, an’ in a voice ’at seemed three times too big for the size ov his carcass he sang—­

Lord John and John Lord were both born on a day,
But their fortunes were different quite;
Lord John was decked out in most gorgeous array,
As soon as he first saw the light. 
But poor Johnny Lord, it’s true on my word,
He’d no clothes to step into at all;
He’d no flannel to wrap, he’d no nightgown or cap,
But was rolled in his poor mother’s shawl. 
Now, it seems very strange, yet it’s true what I say
And I hope you’re not doubting my word;
And I’ll tell what took place in a general way,
With Lord John and with poor Johnny Lord

The nurse took Lord John, and the doctors stood round,
And examined the child and his clothes;
Whilst a fussy physician, with looks most profound,
Wiped his aristocratical nose. 
“It is, I declare, most uncommonly fair,
And its voice, oh! how sweet when it cries;
It really would seem like the child of a dream,
Or an angel just dropt from the skies.” 
Now, it seems very strange, &c.