Cushie Butterfield

As a broken hearted keelman and I'm over head in love. With a young lass in Gateshead and they call her my dove. Her name's Cushie Butterfield and she sells yellow clay. And her cousin's a muckman and they call him Tom Gray. She's a big lass, she's a Bonnie lass and she likes her beer. And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here. Her eyes are like two holes in a blanket burnt through. And her breath in the morning would scare a young cow. And when you hear shouting, "Would you buy any clay?" Like a candyman's trumpet, it steals my young heart away. She's a big lass, she's a Bonnie lass and she likes her beer. And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here. You'd oft see her down at Sandgate when the fresh herring comes in. Like a bagful of sawdust tied round with a string. She wears big galoshes and her stockings once was white. And her bed down is lilac and her hat's never straight. She's a big lass, she's a Bonnie lass and she likes her beer. And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here. When I asked her to marry me, she started to laugh. "Now none of your monkey business for a mid-wife such chaff!" Then she started a blubbering and she roared like a bull. And the chaps on the quay say I'm nought but a fool. She's a big lass, she's a Bonnie lass and she likes her beer. And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here. She's a big lass, she's a Bonnie lass and she likes her beer. And they call her Cushie Butterfield and I wish she was here.