by Harry Haldane

Them’s lucky that’s born wi’ a gift,
‘Cas some’s born as fond as a stob.
But them has ne wark te myek shift,
That’s born wi’ the gift o’ the gob.
Your readin’ an’ writin’ an’ sums
May aall be se clear in yor nob.
Where are they when up a chap comes,
That’s getten the gift o’ the gob. 

What use is a chep that can think?
He’s warse than a torr baccy fob!
He’s torned ootside in iv a wink,
By yen wi’ the gift o’ the gob.
Ye’ve oney te larn hoo te taak,
Then other folks thowts ye can rob;
Ye’ll best them aall clean iv a waak,
If ye’ve oney the gift o’ the gob.

Hinnies noo efter aall we’ll not fret,
Cas some thinks thor good at the job;
Ne cuddy’s a musical pet
Tho’ grand at the gift o’ the gob
It’s when a chep really can yarn,
An’ strite, like a quoit, hit the hob,
Wi’ yor heed an’ yor throwts clear, ye larn
The use o’ the gift o’ the gob.

Originally published in “Tyneside Songs, Volume Three” by J.G Windows Ltd, 1913.