Wha Tae Geordie? ©
Ah wid sat upon the brig o' Tyne,
me feet tappin' oan the watter.
Waitin' fer the sun ti set,
so ah cud pickle eels wi' splatter.
Waitin' fer a bonnie Gatesheed lass,
come waltzin' in clogs an' shawl.
Alang the cobbled Quayside,
then ti a hot peas supper in stall.
Hot vinegar stings the nose end,
an' cool watter drools frae the gob.
An' the salt curls the print frae newspaper,
an' a hot tongue brings forth a sob.
"Tha' bugger were 'ot!" I gasped,
she giggled, "Ah'll blaw it cowd my love."
So we sat dangling eel lines in the river.
while the Moon shone bright from above.
We awoke by the Tyne in the morning,
the grass was now heavy with dew.
Then Feebie rose on the horizon,
to greet another day anew.
Gulls wheelin' an' screaming doon,
this memory a pleasant cup.
But ony if ye remember the Gull o' Tyne,
an' divnant pause ti look up.
A distant dismal hoot o' a steam tug,
towing dumb barges o' coal.
As they struggle aggin the incomin' tide,
guided by light from the Mole.
Trams begin janglin' and trundlin',
up wan street an' doon the next.
An the ticket collector keeps dronin' oan,
"Harrawy man Geordie, wha ti next?"