 | Poems and Songs |  |
156
Owd Roddle.
I
Owd Roddle wur tattert an' torn,With a bleart an' geawly e'e;
He're wamble, an' slamp, an' unshorn;
A flaysome cowt to see:
Houseless, without a friend,
The poor owd wand'rin slave
Crawled on to his journey's end,
Wi' one of his feet i'th grave:
Poor owd Roddle!
157
II
Owd Roddle wur fond of ale,Fro' tap to tap went he;
An' this wur his endless tale,
“Who'll ston a gill for me?”
He crept into drinkin'-shops
At dawnin' o' mornin' leet;
He lived upo' barmy slops,
An' slept in a tub at neet:
Poor owd Roddle!
III
As Roddle one mornin'-tideWur trailin' his limbs to town,
A twinkle i'th slutch he spied,
“Egad, it's a silver crown!”
“Now, Roddle, go buy a shirt—
A shirt an' a pair o' shoon!”
“A fig for yor shoon an' shirts;
My throttle's as dry's a oon!”
Poor owd Roddle!
158
IV
“Come, bring us a weel-filled quart;I connot abide a tot;
To-day I've a chance to start
With a foamin', full-groon pot!
This crown has a jovial look;
I'm fleyed it'll melt too fast;
But I'll live like a king i'th nook
As long as my crown'll last!”
Poor owd Roddle!
V
But he met with a friendly touchThat ended his mortal woes;
For he fell in a fatal clutch,
That turned up his weary toes:
Though they missed him i' nooks o'th own
Where penniless topers meet,
Nob'dy knew how he'd broken down,
Nor where he'd crept out o' seet:
Poor owd Roddle!
159
VI
In a churchyard corner lone,Under a nameless mound,
Where the friendless poor are thrown,
Roddle lies sleepin' sound:
And the kind moon shines at night
On the weary wanderer's bed,
And the sun and the rain keep bright
His grassy quilt o'erhead.
Poor owd Roddle!
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