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

Aw've just mended th' fire wi' a cob;
Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon;
There's some nice bacon-collops o'th hob,
An' a quart o' ale posset i'th oon;
Aw've brought thi top-cwot, doesto know,
For th' rain's comin' deawn very dree;

154

An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow;—
Come whoam to thi childer an' me

II

When aw put little Sally to bed,
Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer,
So aw kiss'd th' little thing, an' aw said
Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro' th' fair;
An' aw gav her her doll, an' some rags,
An' a nice little white cotton-bo';
An' aw kiss'd her again; but hoo said
'At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o'.

III

An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark wi' him,
Afore aw could get him up stairs;

155

Thae towd him thae'd bring him a drum,
He said, when he're sayin' his prayers;
Then he looked i' my face, an' he said,
“Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad?”
An' he cried whol his een were quite red;—
He likes thee some weel, does yon lad!

IV

At th' lung-length, aw geet him laid still;
An' aw hearken't folks' feet 'at went by;
So aw iron't o' my clooas reet weel,
An' aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry;
When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts,
Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer,
An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt—
Mon, aw'm one-ly when theaw artn't theer.

156

V

“Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick;
Aw've a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal;
Aw've a book full o' babs; an' a stick
An' some bacco an' pipes for mysel';
Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay—
Iv thae'll feel i' my pocket, thae'll see;
An' aw've bought tho a new cap to-day,—
But aw olez bring summat for thee!

VI

“God bless tho', my lass; aw'll go whoam,
An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' childer o' reawnd:
Thae knows, that wheerever aw roam,
Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd greawnd;
Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass;
Aw can do wi' a bit ov a spree;
But aw've no gradely comfort, my lass,
Except wi' yon childer and thee.”

Cob, a lump of coal.

Oon, oven.

Top-cwot, top-coat.

Dree, wearily-continuous.

Feyther, father.

Wark, work.

Whol, while, until.

Th' lung-length, the long-length, the end.

One-ly, lonely.

Babs, babies, pictures.

Olez, always.

Whoam, home.

Gradely, proper, right.

157

WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN?

I

What ails thee, my son Robin?
My heart is sore for thee;
Thi cheeks are grooin' thinner,
An' th' leet has laft thi e'e;
Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome,
An' looks so pale at morn;
God bless tho, lad, aw'm soory
To see tho so forlorn.

158

II

Thi fuutstep's sadly awter't. —
Aw used to know it weel,—
Neaw, arto fairy-stricken, lad;
Or, arto gradely ill?
Or, hasto bin wi' th' witches
I'th cloof, at deep o'th neet?
Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo,—
For summat is not reet!

III

“Eh, mother, dunnut fret yo;
Aw am not like mysel';
But, 'tisn't lung o'th feeorin'
That han to do wi' th' deil;
There's nought 'at thus could daunt mo,
I'th cloof, by neet nor day;—

159

It's yon blue een o' Mary's;—
They taen my life away.”

IV

“Aw deawt aw've done wi comfort
To th' day that aw mun dee,
For th' place hoo sets her fuut on,
It's fairy greawnd to me;
But, oh, it's no use speykin',
Aw connut ston her pride;
An' when a true heart's breykin'
It's very hard to bide!”

V

Neaw, God be wi' tho, Robin;
Just let her have her way;

160

Hoo'll never meet thy marrow,
For mony a summer day;
Aw're just same wi' thi feyther,
When first he spoke to me:
So, go thi ways, an' whistle;
An' th' lass'll come to thee!

Th' leet has laft thi e'e, the light has left thine eye.

Soory, sorry.

Awter't, altered.

Gradely, properly, thoroughly.

Cloof, clough, glen.

Feeorin', frightening, things that frighten.

Aw deawt, I doubt, I think, I surmise.

Fairy-greawnd, enchanted ground.

Marrow, match.

Feyther, father.

161

WILLY'S GRAVE.

I

The wintry wind was wailing wild,
Across the moorland wold;
The cloudless vault of heaven was bright
With studs of gleaming gold;
The weary cotter's heavy lids
Had closed with closing day;
And, on his silent hearth, a tinge
Of dying fire-light lay.

162

II

The ancient village seemed asleep
Beneath the starry sky;
A little river, sheathed in ice,
Came gliding gently by;
The grey church, in the grave-yard,
Where “the rude forefathers lay,”
Stood, like a mother, waiting till
Her children came from play.

III

No footstep trod the tiny town;
The drowsy street was still;
Save where the wandering night-wind sang
Its requiem wild and shrill:
The stainless snow lay thick upon
Those quaint old cottage eaves;
And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung
Where grew last summer's leaves.

163

IV

Each village home was dark and still,
And closed was every door;
For gentle sleep had twined her arms
Around both rich and poor,—
Save in one little cot, where, by
A candle's flickering ray
A childless mother sighing sat,
And combed her locks of grey.

V

Her husband, and her children all,
Were in the silent bed,
Where, one by one, she'd laid them down—
And left them with the dead;
Then, toiling on towards her rest,—
A lonely pilgrim, she,—
For God and poverty were, now,
Her only company.

164

VI

Upon the shady window-sill,
A well-worn bible lay;
Against the wall, a coat had hung,
For many a weary day;
And, on the scanty table-top,
With crumbs of supper strewn,
There stood, beside a porringer,
Two little empty shoon.

VII

The fire was waning in the grate;
The spinning-wheel at rest;
The cricket's song rang loudly in
That lonely woman's nest;
As, with a napkin, thin, and worn,
And wet with many a tear,
She wiped the little pair of shoon
Her darling used to wear.

165

VIII

Her widowed heart had often leaped
To hear his prattle small;
He was the last that she had left—
The dearest of them all;
And, as she rocked her to and fro,
While tears came dreeping down,
She sighed, and cried, “Oh, Willy, love,—
These little empty shoon!”

IX

With gentle hand she laid them by,—
She laid them by with care;
For, Willy, he was in his grave,—
And all her thoughts were there:
She paused before she dropped the sneck,
That closed her lambless fold,—
It grieved her heart to bar the door,
And leave him in the cold.

166

X

A thread-bare cloak she lapped around
Her limbs, so thin and chill;
She left her lonely cot behind,
While all the world was still;
And through the solitary night,
She took her silent way,
With weeping eyes, towards the spot
Where little Willy lay.

XI

The pallid moon had climbed aloft
Into the welkin blue;
A snow-clad tree across the grave
Its leafless shadow threw;
And, as that mournful mother sat
Upon a mound thereby,
The bitter wind of winter sighed
To hear her lonely cry!

167

XII

My little Willy's cowd an' still,—
He's not a cheep for me!
Th' last tremblin' leaf has dropt away
Fro' this poor withered tree!
God help my heart! my comfort's gone!
I 'm lonely under th' sky!
He'll never clip my neck again,
An' tell me not to cry!

XIII

My darlin' lad! He's laid i' th dust!
My little Willy's dead!
An' o' that made me cling to life,
Lies in his frosty bed!
He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare neest!
Oh, what's this world to me!
My little love! I'm lonely neaw!
When mun I come to thee!

168

XIV

He's crept into his last dark nook,
And laft me pinin' here!
An' never-moor his two blue e'en
For me mun twinkle clear!
He'll never say his prayers again
At his poor mammy's knee!
Oh, Willy, love! I'm lonely now;
When mun I come to thee!

XV

The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain
To hear that plaintive cry;
The old church listened; and the spire
Kept pointing to the sky;
With kindlier touch, the frosty wind
Played in her locks of grey;
And the queenly moon, upon her head,
Shone with a softened ray.

169

XVI

She rose to leave that lonely bed;
Her heart was grieving sore;
One step she took, and then, her tears
Fell faster than before:
She turned and gave another look,—
One lingering look she gave,—
Then, sighing, left him lying in
His little wintry grave.

170

THE GRINDLESTONE.

[_]

Air—“Derry Down.”

I

It wur Dody o' Joseph's, a joiner by trade,
A comical cowt, an' a keen-bitten blade;
He're as fause as a boggart, as th' neighbours weel knew,
Though,—when he'd a mind,—he could look like a foo'.
Derry down.

II

But th' bravest an' breetest o' th' childer o' men
May haply be hamper't a bit, now an' then;
Dody's axe wanted grindin', one wark-a-day morn,
When there nobry about to gi' th' grindle a turn.
Derry down.

171

III

Then he grunted, an' mumble't, an' glendur't around,
An' he tooted about o'er the neighbourin' ground;
Still, never a soul to turn th' stone could he find,
An' it made him a little bit thrutched in his mind.
Derry down.

IV

Till a soft lookin' urchin coom wanderin' by,
Wi' his thumb in his mouth, an' a tear in his eye;
Wi' his slate an' his satchel, he're creepin' to schoo',
An',—bi th' look of his een,—Dody know'd he're a foo'.
Derry down.

V

“Bi th' maskins,” says Dody, “I'm losen't at last!”
An' he beckon't o' th' lad that wur wanderin' past!
“Come hither, my tight little maister o' men!”
Then he poo'd out a sixpence,—an' fobbed it again.
Derry down.

172

VI

“There's a grindlestone here—dosto think thou can turn;
If thou doesn't know how, I can help tho to larn.
I connot howd th' axe an' turn th' hondle mysel';
Thou'rt a nice lad o' somebry's—come, give us a twell!”
Derry down.

VII

Th' lad laid howd o' th' hondle, an' shap't like a mon;
For he lippen't o' sixpence, when th' turning wur done;
So, he twirl't at this grindle o' Dody o' Joe's,
Till saut-water trickl't off th' end of his nose.
Derry down.

VIII

Dody felt at his axe,—an' he said, “Thou young foo';
Thou'lt get a rare twiltin' for stoppin' fro' schoo';

173

Hie tho' off, like a red-shank, or th' dur may be teen'd:”
An' he gav' him a bit of a lifter beheend.
Derry down.

IX

Th' lad dried fro his for-yed the breet briny drip;
An' he pike'd up his books, wi' a wimperin' lip;
An' he crope off to schoo', turnin' o'er in his mind
Th' first lesson he'd larn't i' the pranks o' monkind.
Derry down.

X

As yo wander'n through life, ten 'at one that yo'n find
A good lot o' folk that han axes to grind;
Give a turn when yo con; but remember to th' end,
It's turnin' th' wrang road to turn on a friend.
Derry down.

174

GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK!

God bless these poor folk that are strivin'
By means that are honest an' true,
For some'at to keep 'em alive in
This world that we're scramblin' through:
As th' life ov a mon's full o' feightin',
A poor soul that wants to feight fair,
Should never be grudged ov his heytin',
For th' hardest o'th battle's his share.