My Girl’s a Yorkshire Girl

My girl's a Yorkshire girl 
(Eh! by gum, she's a champion!)

Two young fellows were talking about
Their girls, girls, girls —
Sweethearts they'd left behind,
Sweethearts for whom they pined.
One said, "My little shy little lass
Has a waist so trim and small.
Gray are her eyes so bright,
But best, best of all...

My girl's a Yorkshire girl —
Yorkshire through and through.
My girl's a Yorkshire girl,
Eh! by gum, she's a champion!
Though she's a factory lass
And wears no fancy clothes,
Still I've a sort of a Yorkshire relish
For my little Yorkshire Rose.

When the first finished singing the praise
Of Rose, Rose, Rose,
Poor number two looked vexed,
Saying in tones perplexed:
"My lass works in a factory too
And has also eyes of gray;
Her name is Rose as well,
And strange, strange to say...

To a cottage in Yorkshire they hied
To Rose, Rose, Rose,
Meaning to make it clear
Which was the boy most dear.
Rose, their Rose, didn't answer the bell,
But her husband did instead.
Loudly he sang to them
As off, off they fled...