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

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

An' just meet neaw, aw scamper't deawn;—
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

Aw guess thae's yerd o' Clinker lad
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

An' neaw, they sen he's sellin' milk
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!

Ov owd, of old.

Porritch thible, a piece of wood to stir boiling porridge with.

Hoo'll, she'll, she will.

Poo, pull.

Fur, further.

Thae'm, thou must.

Limber-legged, nimble-legged.

Lammas, to run away.

Tung, tongue.

A grooin' tree, a growing tree.

Booses, resting-places, generally applied to the stalls of a cattle-shed.

Aw'll keawer mo deawn till baggin' time, I will sit me down till the afternoon meal-time.

Reech, a smoke.

Thae's yerd o' Clinker lad, thou hast heard of Clinker's lad.

Gettin wed, getting married.

Wrang i'th yed, wrong in the head, crazy.

That's not mich to crack o', that's not much to talk of, or to wonder at.

Powler't, jolted, knocked to and fro.

Puncin', kicking.

Like foot-bo's in a pastur', like footballs in a field.

Gan 'em silk, given them silk, thrashed them finely, thoroughly.

Swilk, to make a noise inside, like a half-filled barrel, when shaken.

He's sellin' milk, an allusion to Garibaldi's farming in the isle of Caprera.

To raise new clooas for Ayster, to raise new clothes for Easter. Country people in Lancashire generally make a superstitious struggle to wear some kind of new clothing on Easter Sunday.

Slutch, mire.

Doitch, ditch.

Bith mon, by the man, an ancient allusion to the Saviour of mankind.

Cwortin', courting.

Poo up, pull up.

Foo, fool.

Bith mass, by the mass.