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

Heigh, Ned, owd mon, I feel as fain
As th' breetest brid 'at sings i' May;
Come, sit tho deawn; I'll wear a creawn;
We'n have a roozin rant to-day!
Let's doance an' sing; I've bought a ring
For bonny Nan i'th Owler dale;
Then heigh for fun; my mopin 's done!
An' neaw I'm brisk as bottle't ale!

276

Oh, guess, owd brid,
What's beawn to be;
For I like Nan,—
An' hoo likes me!

II

Twelve months i' weeds, when Robin dee'd,
Hoo look'd so deawn, wi' ne'er a smile;
I couldn't find i' heart or mind
To cheep o' weddin' for a while;
I thought I'd bide; but still I sighed
For th' mournin' cleawd to clear away;
I watched her e'en groo breet again,—
A layrock tootin' eawt for day!

277

Then, guess, owd brid,
What's beawn to be;
For I like Nan,—
An' hoo likes me!

III

My Nanny's fair, an' trim, an' rare;
A modest lass, an' sweet to see;
Her e'en are blue, her heart it's true,—
An' Nanny's hardly twenty-three;
An' life's so strung, when folk are yung;
That waitin' lunger wouldno do;
These moor-end lads, hoo turns their yeds, —
Hoo's bin a widow lung enoo!

278

Then guess, owd brid,
What's beawn to be;
For I like Nan,—
An' hoo likes me!

IV

I've sin, at neet, abeawt a leet,
A midge keep buzzin' to an' fro,
Then dart at th' shine, 'at looked so fine,
And brun his wings at th' end of o';
That midge's me, it's plain to see,—
My wings are brunt, an' yet, I'm fain;
For, wheer I leet, I find so sweet,
I's never want to fly again!
Then guess, owd brid,
What's beawn to be;
For I like Nan,—
An' hoo likes me!

Owd mon, old man, a friendly phrase, applied to both old and young.

I'll wear a creawn, I'll spend five shillings.

Roozin' rant, a rousing frolic.

I'th Owler dale, in the dale of the Owler trees.

Cheep, to chirp, to hint at, to allude to slyly.

Groo breet, grow bright.

A layrock tootin' eawt for day, a skylark peeping out for the dawn of morning.

Waitin' lunger wouldno do, it would not do to wait any longer.

These moor-end lads, hoo turns their yeds, she is turning the heads of these lads who live at the edges of the wild moors.

Hoo's bin a widow lung enoo, she has been a widow long enough.

At neet abeawt a leet, at night about a light.

An' brun his wings at th' end ov o', and burn his wings at the end of all.

Leet, alight, drop upon.