Eawr Market Neet Songtext
von The Oldham Tinkers

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.