ONE neet aw crope wham
when my weighvin' were o'er,
To brush mo, an' wesh mob, an'
fettle my yure;
Then, trailin' abeawt, wi' my heart i' my shoon,
Kept tryin' my hond at a bit of a tune,
As Mally sit rockin',
An' darnin' a stockin',
tentin' her bakin' i'th o'on.
Th' chylt were asleep, an' my clooas were reet,
Th' baggin' were ready, an' o' lookin'
But, aw're mazy, an' nattle, an'
fasten't to tell
What the dule it could be that're ailin' mysel';
An' it made me so naught,
That, o' someheaw, aw thought,
"Aw could just like a snap at eawr
Poor lass, hoo were kinder becose aw were quare;
"Come, Jamie, an' sattle thisel'
in a cheer;
Thae's looked very yonderly mony a
It's grievin' to see heaw thae'rt wearin' away,
An' trailin' abeawt,
Like a hen at's i'th meawt;
Do, pritho, poo up to thi tay!
"Thae wants some new flannels,—thae's getten a cowd,—
Thae'rt noather so ugly, my lad, nor so owd,—
But, thae'rt makin' thysel' into nought but a slave,
Wi' weighvin', an' thinkin', an' tryin' to save;—
Get summat to heyt,
Or thae'll go eawt o' seet,—
wortchin' thisel' into th' grave."
Thinks I, "Th' lass 's reet, an aw houd with her wit;"
So, aw said,—for aw wanted to cheer her a bit,—
"Owd crayter, aw've noan made my mind up to dee,—
A frolick 'll just be the physic for me!
Aw'll see some fresh places,
An' look at fresh faces,—
An' go have a bit ov a spree!"
Then, bumpin' an' splashin' her kettle went deawn;
"I'th name o' good Katty,
Jem, wheer arto beawn?
An' what sort o' faces dost want,—con to tell?
Aw deawt thae'rt for makin' a foo o' thisel',—
The dule may tent th' oon;
Iv aw go witheawt shoon,
Aw'll see where thae gwos to, mysel'!"
Thinks I, "Th' fat's i'th fire,—aw mun make it no wur,—
For there's plenty o' fightin' to do eawt o'th dur,—
So, aw'll talk very prattily to her, as heaw,
Or else hoo'll have houd o' my toppin
An' bith leet in her e'en,
It were fair to be seen
That hoo'll ready to
rive me i' teaw.
Iv truth mun be towd, aw began to be fain
To study a bit o' my cwortin' again;
So aw said to her, "Mally, this world's rough enoo!
To fo' eawt wi' thoose one likes
best, winnut do,—
It's a very sore smart,
An' it sticks long i' th heart,"—
An', egad, aw said nought but what's
Lord, haw a mon talks when his heart's in his tung!
Aw roost her, poor lass, an'
showed hoo wur wrung,
Till hoo took mo bith hond, with a tear in her e'e,
An' said, "Jamie, there's nob'dy as tender as thee!
Forgi mo, lad, do;
For aw'm nobbut a foo,—
An' bide wi' me, neaw, till aw dee!"
So, we'n bide one another, whatever may come;
For, there's no peace i'th world if there's no peace a-whoam;
An' neaw, when a random word gi's her some pain,
Or makes her a little bit cross in her grain,
Sunshine comes back,
As soon as aw crack
O' beginning my cwortin' again.
OWD Pinder were a
An' spent his days i' spreein';
At th' end of every drinkin-do,
He're sure to crack
Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon;
Aw's never live to trail 'em ;
My ballis-pipes are eawt o'
An' th' wynt begins to
"Eawr Matty's very fresh an' yung;—
'Twould any mon bewilder;—
Hoo'll wed again afore its lung,
For th' lass is fond o' childer;
My bit o' brass 'll fly,—yo'n see,—
When th' coffin-lid has screened me,—
It gwos again my pluck to dee,
An' lev her wick beheend
"Come, Matty, come, an' cool my yed;
Aw's finish's, to my thinkin';"
Hoo happed him nicely up, an' said,
"Thae's brought it on wi' drinkin';"—
"Nay, nay," said he, "my fuddle's done;
We're partin' tone
So, promise me that when aw'm gwon,
Thae'll never wed another!"
"Th' owd tale," said hoo, an' lift her stoo;
"Its rayly past believin';
Thee think o'th world thea'rte goin' to,
An' lev this world to th' livin';
What use to me can deeod folk be?
Thae's kilt thisel' wi' spreein';
An' if that's o' thae wants wi' me,
wi' thi deein'!"
He scrat his yed, he rubbed his e'e,
An' then he donned his breeches;
"Eawr Matty gets as fause," said he,
"As one o' Pendle
If ever aw'm to muster wit,
It mun be now or never;
Aw think aw'll try to live a bit;
It would'nt do to lev her!"
The Goblin Parson.
TH' wynt wur still o'th
shade o'th hill,
An' stars began o' glowin',
I'th fadin' leet, one summer neet,
When th' dew wur softly foin';
Wi' weary shanks, by primrose banks,
Where rindlin' weet
Aw whistle's careless, wanderin' slow,
Toward my cot inclinin'.
Through th' woodlan' green aw tooted
For th' little window winkin';―
Th' stars may shine, they're noan as fine
As Matty's candle blinkin';
O'er th' rosy hedge aw went to th' ridge
To get another blink o'th leet
That set my heart a-pantin'.
Then deawn bi'th well i'th fairy-dell,
Wi' trees aboon it knittin',
Where, near an' fur, their nowt astir
But bats i'th eawl-leet
An' feeorfu' seawnds that rustle't reawnd
I' mony a goblin-flitter,
As swarmin' dark to flaysome wark
They flew wi' fiendish titter.
Theer, reet anent, aw geet a glent
That brought a shiver o'er me,
For, fair, i'th track their summat black
Coom creepin' on afore me;
It wur not clear,—but it wur theer,—
Wi' th' gloomy shadow blendin',
Neaw black an' slim, neaw grey an' grim,
Wi' noather side nor endin'.
Cowd drops wur tremblin' o' my broo,
As there aw stoode belated;—
Aw durstn't turn,—aw durstn't goo,
But shut my e'en, an' waited;
An' just as aw begun to pray,
There coom fro' th' creepin' spectre
A weel known voice, that said, "Well, James!"—
'Twur nowt but th' village rector.
"Well, James," said he, "I'm fain to see
Your pew so weel attended,
But then, yo shouldn't fo' asleep
Afore my sarmon's ended;
To dreawsy ears it 's useless quite
To scatter holy teychin';
Why don't yo bring a bit o' snuff,
An' tak it while I'm
"Well, well," said aw, "there's mony a way
O' keepin' e'en fro' closin',
A needle would keep th' body wake,
An' th' soul might still be dozin':—
But this receipt would set it reet,
If th' mixture wur a warm un,—
Yo' get some stingin' gospel-snuff,
An' put it into th' sarmon."
He stare't like mad, but th' good owd lad
Then grip't my hond, warm-hearted,
An' said, "You're reet, you're reet—good neet!"
An' that wur heaw we parted.
It touched my heart, an' made it smart,
He spoke so mild and pratty;—
Aw blest him as he walked away,
An' then went whoam to Matty.
Come, Jamie, let's Undo thi
COME Jamie, let's undo
An' don summat dry o' thi
Wi' toilin' i'th sheaw'r up an' deawn;
Aw'm fleyed at thi
stockin's are weet;
An', here, wi' my yung uns i'th neest,
Aw bin heark'nin' to th' patter o'th rain,
An' longing for th' wanderin' brid
To comfort my spirits again.
To-day, when it pelted at th' height,
"Aw'll ston it no longer," said I;
For, rayly, it didn't look reet
To keawer under cover so
So, though it were rainin' like mad,
Aw thought,—for my heart gav a swell,—
"Come deawn asto will, but yon lad
Shall not have it o' to his-sel'!"
So, whippin' my bucket i'th rain,
Aw ga' th' bits o' windows a swill;
An', though aw geet drenched to my skin,
Aw 're better content wi' mysel';
But, theaw stons theer smilin' o'th floor,
Like a sun-fleawer drippin' wi' weet;
Eh, Jamie, theaw knowsn't, awm sure,
Heaw fain aw'm to see tho to-neet!
Eh, lass, what's a sheawer to me?
Aw've plenty o' sun in my breast,
Mi wark keeps me hearty an' free,
An' gi's me a relish for rest;
Aw'm noan made o' sugar nor saut,
That melts wi' a steepen' o' rain;
An', as for my jacket,—it's nought,—
Aw'll dry it by
th' leet o' thi e'en!
Come, sit thou down close by my side,—
Aw'm full as a cricket wi' glee;
Aw'm trouble't wi' nothin' but pride,
An' o' on it owing to thee;
Theaw trim little pattern for wives;—
Come, give a poor body a kiss!
Aw wish every storm of our lives
May end up as nicely as this!
While takin' a Wift o' my
WHILE takin' a wift o'
my pipe, tother neet
A thowt trickled into my pate,
That sulkin' becose everything isn't sweet,
Is nobbut a foolish consate;
If mon had bin made for a bit of a spree,
An' th' world were a
Wi' nought nobbut heytin', an' drinkin', an' glee,
An' haliday gam to
An' feel he'd bin born for a foo.
Poor crayter, he's o' discontentment an' deawt,
Whatever his fortin may be;
He's just like a choilt at goes cryin'
"Eawr Johnny's moor traycle nor me;"
One minute he's trouble't, next minute he's fain,
An' then, they're so blended i' one,
It's hard to tell whether he's laughin' through pain,
Or whether he's peawtin' for fun;—
He capers a bit,—an' he's gone.
It's wise to be humble i' prosperous ways,
For trouble may chance to be
It's wise for to struggle wi' sorrowful days,
Till sorrow breeds sensible glee;
He's rich that, contented wi' little, lives weel,
An' nurses that little to moor;
He's weel off at's rich, if he nobbut can feel
He's brother to thoose that are poor;
An' to him
'at does fair,
livin' be bare,
Some comfort shall ever be sure.
We'n nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below,
An' th' lungest is very soon spent;
There's summat aboon measur's cuts' for
An' th' most on 'em nobbut a
Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that,
We'n make th' best o'th stuff till it's done,
An' when it leets eawt to get rivven
Let's darn it as weel as we con;
order comes to us
To doff these
There'll surely be new uns to don.
God Bless Thin Silver Yure.
JONE, lad, though thi
Like reawsty iron to
There's very few i'th lond
Aw like to gripe as weel,
That'll never dee i'th dumps
Becose o' bein' poor,
Thae good owd king o' trumps,—
God bless thi silver yure!
Poo up to th' side o'th hob,
An' rest thi weary shanks,
An' dunnot fret thi nob
Wi' fortin an' her pranks;
These folk at's preawd an' rich
May tremble at her freawn;—
They'n further far nor sich
As thee to tumble deawn.
Theaw never longs for wine,
Nor dainties rich an' rare,
For sich a life as thine
Can sweeten simple fare;
Contented wi' thi meal,
Thae's wit enough to know
That daisies liven weel
Where tulips connot grow.
An' though thi clooas are rough,
An' gettin' very owd,
They'n onswer weel enough
To keep thi limbs fro' cowd;
A foo would pine away
I' sich a suit as thine,
But, thaer't the stuff to may
A fustian jacket fine.
A tattered clout may lap
A very noble prize;
A king may be, by hap,
A beggar i' disguise.
When tone has laft
An' tother done his crust,
Then, which is which, at last,—
These little piles o' dust?
An' though thy share o' life,
May seem a losin' game,
Thae's striven fair i'th strife,
An' kept a dacent aim;
No meawse-nooks i' thi mind,
Nor malice i' thi breast,
Thae's still bin true an' kind,
An' trusted fate wi' th' rest.
Through trouble, toil, an' wrung,
Thae's whistle's at thi wark,
Thae's wrostle't life so lung,
Thi limbs are gettin' stark;
But sich a heart as thine's
A never failin' friend;
It cheers a mon's decline,
An' keeps it sweet to th' end.
Thy banner 'll soon be furled,
An' then they'n ha' to tell,
"He travelled th' dirty world,
An' never soil't his-sel'!"
An' when aw come to dee,
An' death has taen his tow,
Aw hope to leet o' thee,—
God bless thy snowy pow!
EH! Sam whatever doesto
Aw see thae 'rt theer i'th nook again,—
Where aw 've a gill thae's nine or ten;
Hast dropt into a fortin?
Aw wonder heave a mon can sit
An' waste his bit o' wage an' wit:
Iv aw're thi wife, aw'd make tho flit,—
Wi' little time to start in.
But, houd; yo'r Margit's up i'th teawn
Aw yerd her ax for thee at th' Crown;
An' just meet neaw, aw scampered deawn;—
It's true as aught i'th Bible!
Thae knows your Margit weel, of owd;
Her tung,—it makes mo fair go cowd,
Sin' th' day hoo broke my nose i'th fowd
Wi' th' edge o'th
It's ten to one hoo 'll co' in here,
An' poo tho eawt o'th corner cheer;
So, sit fur back, where th' runnin's
Aw'll keep my een o'th window;
Thae'm mind thi hits, an' when aw
Be limber-legged, an'
An', though hoo 'll not believe, aw deawt,
Aw 'll swear aw never sin tho.
Aw 'll bite my tung, aw will, bith mon;
Aw 'll plug my ears up, till hoo 's gone;
A grooin' tree could hardly
A savage woman flytin';
If folk were nobbut o' i'th mind
To make their bits o' booses kind,
There 'd be less wanderin' eawt to find
A corner to be quiet in.
It 's nearly three o'clock bith chime:
This ale o' Jem's is very prime;
Aw 'll keawer mo deawn till
An' have a
reech o' bacco;
Aw guess thae's yerd o'
An' Liltin' Jenny gettin wed;
An' Collop gooin' wrang i'th yed,—
that's nought mich to
There's news that chaps 'at wore a creawn,
Are getting powler't up an' deawn
They're puncin' 'em fro teawn to
Like foot-bo's in a
Yon Garibaldi's gan 'em silk;
Th' owd lad; he's fairly made 'em swilk;
An' neaw, they sen he's sellin'
To raise new
clooas for Ayster.
There's some are creepin' eawt o'th
An' some are gettin' deawn i'th doitch;
Bith mon, aw never yerd of sich
A world for change o' fortin'!
They're gooin' groaning eawt o'th seet,
They're comin' cryin' into th' leet;
But, howd! aw yeard, o' Monday neet,
A tale abeawt a
Poo up! aw'll tell it iv aw con;—
Thae knows that little bow-legged mon,
But, heigh,—owd lad! yo'r Margit's yon,—
Hoo's comin' like a racer!—
Some foo has put her upo' th' track;
Cut, Sam; hoo'll have us in a crack!
Aw said hoo'd come,—let's run eawt th' back;
Bith mass, aw dar not face her!
GOOD lorjus days, what
times are these,
For clemmin' an' for cowd;
For doleful looks, an' wintry nooks,
Where folk are poor an' owd;
For hopeless care an' dark despair,
An' gloomy want o' trust;
For fireless hearths, an' cupboards bare,
An' bitter want o' crust.
For a happier
An' keep yor hearts out o' yor spoon;
There's a bit o' blue sky aboon!
There never wur sich mournful cries
O' famine yerd afore;
John Chinaman's bin clemmed to death,
An' India's suffered sore;
Yor mills may weel be stonnin' still,
Yor markets weel be slack;
For when folk's nipt for want o' meight,
They'n nought to spare for th' back.
bide lads, etc.
Sich strikes, an' rows, an' breakages,
There never yet wur known;
Sich frettin', an' sich chettin', an'
Sich bitter starvin' moan;
These knavish pranks i' trusted banks
Are spreadin' ruin round;
An' every hour, the tradin' ranks
Are crashin' to the ground.
bide lads, etc.
Whilst trade declines, an' taxes rise,
And ruin stalks the land,
We groan to see the good we prize,
Crushed by a rampant band;
'Tis ours to watch each bloody fray
And mad gunpowder plot;
And, win the clay whoever may,
'Tis ours to pay the shot.
bide lads, etc.
Though th' bitter air, an' livin' bare,
Gets keener every day;
An' th' emptier folks' pockets are,
The more they han to pay;
Though strikes, an' wars, an' swindlin' tricks
Are sendin' th' wide world wrong;
Yet, come what will, this shall be still
The burden of my song,—
lads, bide, etc.
Come, Limber Lads.
limber lads, so leet an' gay,
Aw'm fain we're wick an' hearty;
To-neet we'n have a haliday—
To-morn we's find it warty:
Like sailors, thrut bith stormy main
Into a nook together,—
One hour o' friendly fun, an' then,
Again for wind and weather.
Owd Time,—though, when a mon's i'th
He's seldom in a hurry,—
Nips up his shins, an' off he stumps,
The minute one gets merry;
Life's road,—though not as dree as his,
It's harder wark to travel;
One leets o' few sich nooks as this,
An' th' journey ends i'th gravel.
Then clink and sing, my lucky lads,
An' frisk it while you're able;
There's cheepin' layrocks
round the board,
An' plenty upo' th' table.
Come, crack yo'r jokes, an' let 'em leet,
O sly deception scornin';
We'n prank it out wi' glee to-neet,
An' strike to wark i' th mornin'.
If o' that wanders under th' sky
Be grass, that cannot linger,
Let every mortal blade that's dry
Cock up his little finger.
Then, fill for him that's full o' fun,—
An' let it be a thumper;
An' th' lad that thinks he's nearly done,
We'n rooze him wi' a bumper!
An' now, to end this friendly rant,—
Turn up your tots to th'
Let's hope that he may ne'er feel scant
That's never scant o' feeling!
Good luck to th' lad that wants a wife,
Wi' rosy chens to bind
An' th' mon that wants a foo,—bith life,—
I' th' lookin'-glass he'll find him!
TWAS when the dawn of
Began to stir i'th sky,
I donned mysel' to wander
Afore the dew wur dry;
To wander in the gay greenwood,
Reet early I did rove,—
I could not sleep upon my bed
For thinkin' of my love.
Down in a bonny dingle,
Where sometimes we did stray,
Our vows of love to mingle,
At close of summer day;
It's there, where oft among her hair
The flowers of spring I've wove,
I sat me down to think upon
The girl that I do love.
It's there I made a garlan',
My darlin' for to don,
And the posies that were in it,
They shinèd like the sun;
The dewy posies, wild and sweet,
All in the leafy grove;
It breaks my heart to think upon
The girl that I do love.
The cowslip, and the speedwell,
With a dewdrop in its e'e,—
An' the wild rose, an' the bluebell,
They blend so bonnilie;
An' the honey-suckle, wand'rin wild,
With violets blue, I wove,
They made me for to think upon
The girl that I do love.
An' when I poo'd my posies,
The small birds they did sing;
An' when I wove my garlan',
They made the woods to ring;
On every tree, the wild birds' glee,
Rang through the leafy grove,
As I came away, at dawn of day,
Still thinkin' of my love.
Oh, the mornin' sun it rises
To cheer my heart's delight,
An' the silver moon she wanders
Among the clouds at night;
An' the twinklin' stars that look so fine,
All in the heavens above,—
At wark or play, by neet an' day,
I'm thinkin' of my love.
HEYWOOD, Excelsior Steam Printing
Hulme Hall Road, Manchester.