 | Poems and Lancashire Songs |  |
193
TICKLE TIMES.
I
Here's Robin looks fearfully gloomy,An' Jamie keeps starin' at th' greawnd,
He's thinkin' o'th table at's empty,
An' th' little things yammerin' reawnd;
It looks very dark just afore us,—
But, keep your hearts eawt o' your shoon, —
Though clouds may be thickenin' o'er us,
There's lots o' blue heaven aboon!
194
II
But, when a mon 's honestly willin',An' never a stroke to be had,
And clemmin' for want ov a shillin',—
No wonder 'at he should be sad;
It troubles his heart to keep seein'
His little brids feedin' o'th air;
An' it feels very hard to be deein',
An' never a mortal to care.
III
But life's sich a quare bit o' travel,—A marlock wi' sun an' wi' shade,—
An' then, on a bowster o' gravel,
They lay'n us i' bed wi' a spade;
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As th' whirligig's twirlin' areawnd,
Have at it again; and keep scratchin'
As lung as yor yed's upo' greawnd.
IV
Iv one could but grope i'th inside on't,There's trouble i' every heart;
An' thoose that'n th' biggest o'th pride on't,
Oft leeten o'th keenest o'th smart.
Whatever may chance to come to us,
Let's patiently hondle er share,—
For there's mony a fine suit o' clooas,
That covers a murderin' care.
V
There's danger i' every station,—I'th palace as much as i'th cot;
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An' canker i' every lot;
There's folk that are weary o' livin'
That never fear't hunger nor cowd;
An' there's mony a miserly nowmun,
At's deed ov a surfeit o' gowd.
VI
One feels, neaw at times are so nippin',A mon's at a troublesome schoo',
That slaves like a horse for a livin',
An' flings it away like a foo;
But, as pleasur's sometimes a misfortin',
An' trouble sometimes a good thing,—
Though we livin' o'th floor, same as layrocks,
We'n go up, like layrocks, to sing!
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