The Collier Lad Poem by Joseph Skipsey

MY lad he is a Collier Lad,
And ere the lark awakes,
He's up and away to spend the day
Where daylight never breaks;
But when at last the day has pass'd,
Clean washed and cleanly clad,
He courts his Nell who loveth well
Her handsome Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match in smoky Shields;
Newcastle never had
A lad more tight, nor trim, nor bright
Than is my Collier Lad.

Tho' doomed to labour under ground,
A merry lad is he;
And when a holiday comes round,
He'll spend that day in glee;
He'll tell his tale o'er a pint of ale,
And crack his joke, and bad
Must be the heart who loveth not
To hear the Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc.

At bowling matches on the green
He ever takes the lead,
For none can swing his arm and fling
With such a pith and speed;
His bowl is seen to skim the green,
And bound as if right glad
To hear the cry of victory
Salute the Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc.

When 'gainst the wall they play the ball,
He's never known to lag,
But up and down he gars it bowne,
Till all his rivals fag;
When deftly—lo! he strikes a blow
Which gars them all look sad,
And wonder how it came to pass
They play'd the Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc.

The quoits are out, the hobs are fix'd,
The first round quoit he flings
Enrings the hob; and lo! the next
The hob again unrings;
And thus he'll play a summer day,
The theme of those who gad;
And youngsters shrink to bet their brass
Against the Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc,

When in the dance he doth advance,
The rest all sigh to see
How he can spring and kick his heels,
When they a-wearied be;
Your one-two-three, with either knee
He'll beat, and then, glee mad,
A heel-o'er-head leap, crowns the dance
Danced by the Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc.

Besides a will and pith and skill,
My laddie owns a heart
That never once would suffer him
To act a cruel part;
That to the poor would ope the door
To share the last he had;
And many a secret blessing's pour'd
Upon my Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc.

He seldom goes to church, I own,
And when he does, why then,
He with a leer will sit and hear,
And doubt the holy men;
This very much annoys my heart;
But soon as we are wed,
To please the priest, I'll do my best
To tame my Collier Lad.

Chorus—There's not his match, etc.