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

Come, Jamie, let's undo thi shoon;
An' don summat dry o' thi feet;
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.

214

II

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 dry;
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'!”

III

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;

215

Eh, Jamie, theaw knowsn't, aw'm sure,
Heaw fain aw'm to see tho to-neet!

IV

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 steepin' o' rain;
An', as for my jacket,—it's nought,—
Aw'll dry it by th' leet o' thi e'en!

V

Come, sit tho deawn close by my side,—
Aw'm full as a cricket wi' glee;
Aw'm trouble't wi' nothin' but pride,
An' o' on it owin' to thee;

216

Theaw trim little pattern for wives;—
Come, give a poor body a kiss!
Aw wish every storm ov our lives
May end up as nicely as this!

Don, to do on, to put on.

Fleyed, afraid.

Rayly, really.

Keawer, to sit, to rest in a couching posture.

Th' leet o' the e'en, the light of thine eyes.