Poems and Lancashire Songs | ||
226
MARGIT'S COMIN'.
I
Eh! Sam, whatever doesto meeon?Aw see thae'rt theer i'th nook again;—
Where aw've a gill thae's nine or ten;
Hast dropt into a fortin?
Aw wonder heaw a mon can sit
An' waste his bit o' wage an' wit:
Iv aw 're thi wife, aw'd make tho flit,—
Wi' little time to start in.
II
But, houd; yo'r Margit's up i'th teawn;Aw yerd her ax for thee at th' Crown;
227
It's true as aught i'th Bible!
Thae knows yo'r Margit weel, ov owd;
Her tung,—it makes mo fair go cowd,
Sin' th' day hoo broke my nose i'th fowd
Wi' th' edge o'th porritch thible.
III
It's ten to one hoo'll co' in here,An' poo tho eawt o'th corner cheer;
So, sit fur back, where th' runnin's clear;—
Aw'll keep my een o'th window;
Thae'm, mind thi hits, an' when aw sheawt,
Be limber-legged, an' lammas eawt;
An', though hoo'll not believe, aw deawt,
Aw'll swear aw never sin tho.
228
IV
Aw 'll bite my tung, aw will, bith mon;Aw'll plug my ears up, till hoo's gone;
A grooin' tree could hardly ston
A savage woman flytin';
Iv folk were nobbut o' i'th mind
To make their bits o' booses kind,
There'd be less wanderin' eawt to find
A corner to be quiet in.
V
It's nearly three o'clock bith chime:This ale o' Jem's is very prime;
Aw'll keawer mo deawn till baggin-time,
An' have a reech o' bacco;
229
An' Liltin' Jenny gettin wed;
An' Collop gooin' wrang i'th yed, —
But, that's nought mich to crack o'.
VI
There's news that chaps 'at wore a creawn,Are getting powler't up an' deawn
They're puncin' 'em fro teawn to teawn,
Like foot-bo's in a pastur;
Yon Garibaldi's gan 'em silk;
Th' owd lad; he's fairly made 'em swilk;
230
To raise new clooas for Ayster.
VII
There's some are creepin' eawt o'th slutch,An' some are gettin' deawn i'th doitch;
Bith mon, aw never yerd of sich
A world for change o' fortin'!
They're gooin' groanin' eawt o'th seet,
They're comin' cryin' into th' leet;
But, howd! aw yerd, o' Monday neet,
A tale abeawt a cwortin'.
231
VIII
Poo up! aw 'll tell it iv aw con;—Thae knows that little bow-legged mon—
But, heigh,—owd lad! yo'r Margit's yon,—
Hoo's comin' like a racer!—
Some foo has put her upo' th' track;
Cut, Sam; hoo'll have us in a crack!
Aw said hoo'd come—let's run eawt th' back;
Bith mass, aw dar not face her!
Poems and Lancashire Songs | ||