Yil awl
hev 'ard of Dorham Jail,
But it wad ye much sorprise,
Te see th' prisonors in th' yard,
Wen thay'r on exorcise,
This yard is bilt eroond wi' walls,
Se noabil en se strang,
We ivor gans thae heh te bide
Thor time, Be it short or lang.
Chorus
Thare's
nee gud luck in Dorham Jail,
Thare's nee gud luck at awl;
Wat is breed en skilly for,
Burt just te muaik smaul?
When ye
gan to Dorham Jail,
Thae'll find ye wiv employ,
Thae'll dress ye up se dandy
In a suite e cordy-roy;
Thae'll fetch e a cap wivoot e peak,
En nivor ax your size,
En like your suite, its cordy-roy
En cums doon ower yor ies.
Th' forst
month is th' warst iv awl;
Your feelins thae will trie
Thare's nowt but two great lumps e wood,
On which ye heh to lie.
Then aftor that ye get e bed,
But it's as 'ard is stuains,
At neet ye dorsint muaik e torn,
For feer ye brick some buaines.
Awl kines
e wark thare's ganen on,
Upon these noable flats,
Teasin oakum, muaikin balls,
En weeven coco mats.
Wen ye gan in ye mae be thin,
But thae cin muaik ye thinnor,
If your oakim isnt teesed,
Thae'r shoor to stop yor dinnor.
Th' shoos
ye get is oftin tens,
Th' smaulest size is nine;
Tho'r big eneuf to muaik a skiff
For Boyd ipon the Tyne.
En if ye shud be cauld at neets,
Just muaik yorsels at yem;
Lap your claes eroond yor shoos,
En get inside e' them.
Yil get
yor meat an clais for nowt,
Yor hoose en firin free;
Awl yor meet's browt to th' door -
Hoo happy ye shud be!
Thor's soap en too'l en wooden speun,
En e little bairne's pot;
They fetch yor papers ivory week
For ye to clean your b't.
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