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

204

OWD PINDER.

I

Owd Pinder were a rackless foo,
An' spent his days i' spreein';
At th' end ov every drinkin-do,
He're sure to crack o' deein';
“Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon;
Aw's never live to trail 'em;
My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune,
An' th' wynt begins to fail 'em!”

205

II

“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 me.”

III

“Come, Matty, come, an' cool my yed;
Aw'm finish'd, 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 fro tother;

206

So, promise me that when aw'm gwon,
Thea'll never wed another!”

IV

“Th' owd tale,” said hoo, an' laft her stoo;
“Its rayly past believin';
Thee think o'th world thea'rt goin' to,
An' lev this world to th' livin';
What use to me can deeod folk be?
Thae's kilt thisel' wi' spreein';
An' iv that's o' thae wants wi' me,
Get forrud wi' thi deein'!”

V

He scrat his yed, he rubbed his e'e,
An' then he donned his breeches;

207

“Eawr Matty gets as fause,” said he
“As one o' Pendle witches;
Iv 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!”

Rackless, reckless.

Crack o' deein', hint at dying.

Ballis-pipes, bellows-pipes, lungs.

Th' wynt, the wind, the breath.

Lev, leave.

Tone fro tother, the one from the other.

Get forrud wi' thi deein', get forward with thy dying.

Fause, cunning.

Pendle witches, Pendle Forest was notoriously associated with the old witch superstitions of Lancashire.