Poems and Lancashire Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and Lancashire Songs

By Edwin Waugh. Fourth Edition, With Additions

Waugh, Edwin (1817-1890)

[dedication]

POEMS.

SONGS IN THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT.

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179

COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I' MINE.

I

Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine,
An' lilt away wi' me;
An' dry that little drop o' brine,
Fro' th' corner o' thi e'e;
Th' mornin' dew i'th heather-bell's
A bonny bit o' weet;
That tear a different story tells,—
It pains my heart to see't.
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

II

No lordly ho' o'th country-side's
So welcome to my view,

180

As th' little corner where abides
My bonny lass an' true;
But there's a nook beside yon spring,—
An' iv theaw'll share't wi' me;
Aw'll buy tho th' bonny'st gowden ring
That ever theaw did see!
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

III

My feyther's gan mo forty peawnd,
I' silver an' i' gowd;
An' a pratty bit o' garden greawnd,
O' th' mornin' side o'th fowd;
An' a honsome bible, clen an' new,
To read for days to come;—
There's leaves for writin' names in, too,
Like th' owd un at's awhoam.
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

181

IV

Eawr Jenny's bin a-buyin' in,
An' every day hoo brings
Knives an' forks, an' pots; an' irons
For smoothin' caps an' things;
My gronny's sent a chist o' drawers,
Sunday clooas to keep;
An' little Fanny's bought a glass
Where thee an' me can peep.
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

V

Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch;
Eawr Jem a load o' coals;
Eawr Charlie's bought some pickters, an'
He's hanged 'em upo' th' woles;
Owd Posy's white-weshed th' cottage through;
Eawr Matty's made it sweet;

182

An Jack's gan me his Jarman flute,
To play bi th' fire at neet!
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

VI

There's cups an' saucers; porritch-pons,
An' tables, greyt an' smo';
There's brushes, mugs, an' ladin'-cans;
An eight-day's clock an' o';
There's a cheer for thee, an' one for me,
An' one i' every nook;
Thi mother's has a cushion on't—
It's th' nicest cheer i'th rook.
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

VII

My gronny's gan me th' four-post bed,
Wi' curtains to 't an' o';

183

An' pillows, sheets, an' bowsters, too,
As white as driven snow;
It isn't stuffed wi' fither-deawn;
But th' flocks are clen an' new;
Hoo says there's honest folk i'th teawn
That's made a warse un do.
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

VIII

Aw peeped into my cot last neet;
It made me hutchin' fain;
A bonny fire were winkin' breet
I' every window-pane;
Aw marlocked upo' th' white hearth-stone.
An' drummed o'th kettle lid;

184

An' sung, “My neest is snug an' sweet;
Aw'll go and fotch my brid !”
So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

Th' mornin' side, the east side, the side from which morning comes.

Chist, chest.

Woles, walls.

Porritch-pons, porridge-pans.

Cheer, chair.

Rook, lot, collection, number.

Fither-deawn, the down of feathers.

A warse un, a worse one.

Hutchin' fain, fidgetting glad.

Breet, bright.

Marlocked, frolicked.

Neest, nest.

Fotch my brid, fetch my bird.