Poems and Songs :: :: University of Virginia Library

On the wild top of Pendle
The clouds gather grim;
To the shepherd of Pendle
The pathway grows dim:
The sleet blinds his sight
As he peers for the light
That still glimmers bright
In the valley for him.

II

O'er the wild ridge of Pendle
The wintry winds sweep;
On the lone waste of Pendle
The snowfall is deep:

Near the bleak mountain's crest,
Where the wildest drifts rest,
With the snow on his breast,
The wanderer's asleep.

III

His mate trims her light
For the shepherd in vain,
As she listens all night
To the stormy refrain:
Long, long she may mourn;
In vain the lamps burn
To guide his return
To his loved ones again.

IV

She may gaze down the path
Till sight fades away;
She may wait for his feet
Till hair has grown grey:
She may sigh, she may moan;
She may dream, she may groan;
She may weep all alone,
To her last dying day.

V

No friends bore the bier
To his lone wintry bed;
No kind hand was near
To pillow his head:
Wild hawks o'er him wing;
White snows round him cling;
And stormy winds sing
The dirge of the dead.

The Moorland Breeze.

I

Of all the blithesome melody
That wakes the warm heart's thrill,
Give me the wind that whistles free
Across the moorland hill;
When every blade upon the lea
Is dancing with delight,
And every bush and flower and tree
Is singing in its flight.

II

When summer comes I'll wear a plume,
With flowers of shining gold;
And it shall be the bonny broom,
That loves the moorland wold;

And it shall wave its petals bright
Above my cap so free,
And kiss the wild wind in its flight
Across the lonely lea.

III

Blithe harper of the moorland hills,
The desert sings to thee;
The lonely heath with music thrills
Beneath thy touch so free:
With trembling glee its wilding strings
Melodious revels keep,
As o'er the waste on viewless wings,
Thy fairy fingers sweep.

IV

In yonder valley, richly green,
I see bright rivers run;
They wind in beauty through the scene
And shimmer in the sun;
And they may sing and they may shine
Down to the heaving sea;
The bonny moorland hills are mine,
Where the wild breeze whistles free!

V

Oh lay me down in moorland ground,
And make it my last bed,
With the heathery wilderness around,
And the bonny lark o'erhead:
Let fern and ling around me cling,
And green moss o'er me creep;
And the sweet wild mountain breezes sing
Above my slumbers deep.

The Kindly Hearth.

[_]

Air—“Fill the bumper fair.'

I

Of all the joys on earth,
The sweetest yet I've found it
Upon the kindly hearth,
With loving hearts around it;
Where Mally sits at ease,
And, singing, plies her knitter,
While children round my knees
Delight me with their twitter.

Chorus—

Of all the joys on earth,
The sweetest yet I've found it
Upon the kindly hearth,
With loving hearts around it.

II

Give me a cosy chair
Beside the glowing ingle,
When kindly hearts are there,
In simple bliss to mingle;
And there, though gloomy skies
Above my roof are scowling,
I'll bask in sunny eyes,
While wintry winds are howling.

Chorus—

Of all the joys on earth,
The sweetest yet I've found it
Upon the kindly hearth,
With loving hearts around it.

III

Oh dearer far to me
Than prison'd lark or linnet,
The home that rings with glee
From happy creatures in it;
The little realm divine,
With rosebuds ever clinging,
Where heart-warm sunbeams shine,
And birds of love are singing.

Chorus—

Of all the joys on earth,
The sweetest yet I've found it
Upon the kindly hearth,
With loving hearts around it.

IV

Oh happy is the wight,
Beyond the cold world's knowing,
With nature true and bright
Within his bosom glowing;
Howe'er the seasons run,
Or fickle fortune flout him,
His kind heart, like the sun,
Still warms the world about him.

Chorus—

Of all the joys on earth,
The sweetest yet I've found it
Upon the kindly hearth,
With loving hearts around it.

V

Some may pine for fame,
Some for piles of treasure;
Some may chase the flame
That leads to painful pleasure
Though lowly be my share,
My pouches scant of money,
I love the fireside fair
Where all is sweet and sunny.

Chorus—

Of all the joys on earth,
The sweetest yet I've found it
Upon the kindly hearth,
With loving hearts around it!

These Bonny Bits o' Childer.

[_]

Air—“Has sorrow thy young days shaded?”

I

Never tell me that childer are tiresome;
They're th' best little craiters alive;
An' i'th' beautiful country aboon us
They're throng as a humma-bee hive:
The sunlight of heaven beams round them,
An' seldom a mortal can meet,
In this changeable world that we're born to,
With aught so unsullied an' sweet!

Chorus—

Never tell me that childer are tiresome,
They're th' best little craiters alive!
And, i'th' beautiful country aboon us,
They're throng as a humma-bee hive.

II

Wi' their prattlin' talk an' their marlocks
They keepen a body's heart green;
An' i'th' gloomiest hour o' life's winter
I can sun me i'th' leet o' their e'en:
Wi' th' sound o' their sweet chicken-music
They maken my little cote ring,
Like a cagefull o' twitterin' angels
That's sent down from heaven to sing!

Chorus—

Never tell me that childer are tiresome,
They're th' best little craiters alive!
An' i'th' beautiful country aboon us
They're throng as a humma-bee hive.

III

An' when I grow weary wi' thinkin',
An' everything round me seems dark,
They keepen my spirits fro' sinkin',
An' senden me back to my wark:

For I feel that there's something to live for,
Though everything else should depart;
An' there's nought in the wide world so precious
As treasures that sweeten the heart!

Chorus—

Never tell me that childer are tiresome,
They're the best little craiters alive!
An' i'th' beautiful country aboon us,
They are throng as a humma-bee hive.

IV

An' when eventide deepens around us,
An' I get 'em laid snugly to rest,
I sometimes creep up again softly,
To look at 'em lyin' i'th' nest:
An' then the quiet tears come down dreepin';
As I sit by the bedside alone;
For the face of a little child sleepin'
Would soften the heart of a stone.

Chorus—

Then never say childer are tiresome;
They're th' best little craiters alive,
An' i'th' beautiful country aboon us
They're throng as a humma-bee hive:

V

Oh, the sunshine of heaven enfolds them,
An' seldom a mortal can meet
In this changeable world that we're born to,
With aught so unsullied an' sweet!

Good Night!

The sun has dipped his golden rim
Beyond the western sea;
The soft winds sings its evening hymn
Unto the drowsy lea;
The wild waves' surging murmurs creep
Along the lonely sand;
The kiss of twilight lulls to sleep
The eyelids of the land.
Good night, my love, good night!

Mysterious whispers, soft and low,
Steal through the rustling leaves;
The dusky bat flits to and fro
About the fading eves;
Yet daylight waits, to see thee close
Those eyes divinely bright;
For, whilst they shine, full well she knows
It cannot yet be night.
Good night, my love, good night!

When the Sun Goes Down.

I

When life's glad day is gone,
And the sun goes down
When we muse all alone
As the sun goes down;
Oh, the heart is not so light,
When the day is taking flight,
And we feel the coming night,
As the sun goes down.

II

Oh, the flowers fall asleep
When the sun goes down;
And the silence is deep,
When the sun goes down;
But the skies of night grow fine,
And the stars begin to shine,
With a radiance divine,
When the sun goes down.

III

Oh, the curfew bell's tolled,
When the sun goes down;
And the sheep seek the fold,
When the sun goes down;
And the churchyard tower grey
Calls life's children home from play,
At the closing of the day,
When the sun goes down.

IV

Ere the lark sinks to rest,
When the sun goes down,
In his grass-shaded nest,
When the sun goes down;
While the world begins to dream,
Then his evening carols stream
From the gathering starlight's gleam,
When the sun goes down.

V

So, remote from the throng,
When the sun goes down,
Life's quiet shades among,
When the sun goes down;

In the twilight's deepening grey,
At the waning of the day,
Let me sing my little lay,
As the sun goes down.

Oh, my Clothing's Thin.

I

Oh, my clothing's thin, and the wind is cold;
I'm a way-worn wanderer, I'm poor and old;
And with trembling limbs, and with failing sight,
I trail through the city from morn till night.

II

Oh, I once had a home and a kind, good man,
And four brave sons, but they're dead and gone;
But now I'm worn to the bare, bare bone;
And I'm left to wander in the world alone.

III

Oh, the road it is dreary without a friend,
And I'm waiting weary for the coming end;
And I'm thankful the close of the journey's nigh;
For the poor and forlorn are content to die.

IV

As I painfully crawl through the heedless crowd,
Many pass me by that are hard and proud;
But the Queen of Heaven, with a holy ray,
Touches some kind hearts on my lonely way.

V

Oh, I sadly dream on the crowded street,
For I'm seeking for those I shall never meet;
And I listening lie, in the sleepless night,
For the voices that once were my heart's delight.

VI

Oh, the wide, wide world! it is lone and cold,
When our darlings are laid in the silent mould,
And the poor old wand'rer may pine for rest,
But the great, good God knows His own time best.

VII

And when I feel that I'm going to die,
I'll creep to the place where my own folks lie;
And I humbly hope to the Heavens above
That they'll lay me down with the friends I love.

To the River Roach.

The quiet Roch comes dancing down
From breezy moorland hills;
It wanders through my native town,
With its bonny tribute rills.

Oh, gentle Roch, my native stream!
Oft, when a careless boy,
I've prattled to thee, in a dream,
As thou went singing by.

Oft, on thy breast, my tiny barge
I've sailed, in thoughtless glee;
And roved in joy thy posied marge,
That first grew green to me.

I've paddled in thy waters clear,
In childhood's happy days;
Change as thou wilt, to me thou'rt dear
While life's warm current plays.

Like thee, my little life glides down
To the great absorbing main,
From whose mysterious deeps unknown
We ne'er return again.

The Hour of Shade.

I

When stars begin to steal in sight
Above the moorland hill;
When dreamy dusk leads on the night,
And all the world grows still;
When dewy pearls on every blade
Light up the twinkling lea,
I hail the soft, sweet hour of shade,
That brings my love to me.

II

In pensive dreams I rove alone
Where gardens scent the air;
But my fancy's on the mountains lone,
And all my heart is there;

Rich groves, and posied fields may charm
The thoughtless and the free,
But my flower of love grows in the wild,
And there I fain would be.

III

I see him springing down the steep,
And singing as he comes;
I see his form in manly sweep,
Bound o'er the heather-blooms!
I see, I see his glowing eyes,
That burn with loving glee!
He comes! My own dear moorland lad!
I know he comes to me!

IV

Of all the hours that, night and day,
In ceaseless circles run,
Give me the hour whose shadows grey
Pursue the setting sun;
It brings the dreamy time of rest
That sets the prisoner free;
It brings the wild bird to its nest;
It brings my love to me!

V

Bright star, that leads the glorious throng
That gem the midnight sky,
When the noisy world has hushed its song,
And laid its business by;
The kindly heavens have filled thy light
With love's enchanting thrill;
Shine sweetly when my bonny lad
Comes lilting down the hill!

To my Old Fiddle.

I

Oh, David was a famous king,
An' maister man o' singers;
His fiddle was a witching thing
When touched by David's fingers;
But David never stirred a string
To melody as fine, oh,
And David's fiddle couldn't sing
Like this owd brid o'mine, oh!

II

My bonny little angel-neest,
So tender, sweet an' funny,
I wouldn't swap my music-kist
To own a mint o' money.

I sometimes think it's gradely wick;
There's singin' brids inside on't;
An' not a string but's swarmin' thick
Wi' little elves astride on't!

III

For it can sob, an' moan an' sigh,
An' it can pout an' whimper;
An' it can coax an' wheedle sly,
An' it can lisp and simper:
An' it can laugh, an' crow, an' shout,
An' it can wail so keen, oh,
Folk connot see their gate about
For th' wayter i' their e'en, oh!

IV

Th' wood were groon i' fairy-lond
That th' bits o' pegs were made on;
An' every nook on't thrills wi' life
The minute that it's played on:

For th' younger end o' fairy-folk,
They're dancin' upo' th' bridge on't;
They're caperin' upo' th' fiddle-bow,
An' ridin' upo' th' ridge on't!

V

As I go tweedlin' up an' down
I meet wi' welcome free, oh!
There's never a mon that comes to town
They're hauve as fain to see, oh:
For th' childer bring'n me butter cakes,
To tickle up my timber;
An' fuddlers bring'n me gills of ale,
To make my elbow limber!

VI

My darlin' little singin' brid,
We'n both grown owd together;
An' we'n bin kind an' faithful friends,
Through dark an' sunny weather:

An' though nought else should make a moan
The day that I shall dee, oh,
If they'n let this little brid alone
It'll sing a hymn for me, oh!

I Wish, my Love, it was so with You.

I

Oh, I dream all day, and I muse all night,
On the one dear girl that's my only light;
For my heart it is tender, and fond and true,
And my thoughts, my love, have no home but you;
No home but you,
No home but you;
My thoughts have no home in the world but you!

II

Oh, there's not a cloud on the soft blue sky,
Where the blithe lark chants in the lift so high;
Yet my heart it is sad, for it's fond and true
As the cloudless heaven's unchanging blue;
Fond and true;
Fond and true;
And I wish, my love, it was so with you!

III

There's a sweet bird singing in my poor breast;
And, by night and day, he gives me no rest;
For his song it is tender, and fond, and true;
And I wish, my love, he would sing to you;
Sing to you;
Sing to you;
Oh, I wish, my love, he would sing to you!

Fishwoman's Song.

I

As I wander slow, through the frost and snow,
And the cold drift round me flying,
With my basket on my head I go
Through the village, sadly crying,
Codling, fresh codling; codling alive!

II

Oh, my good man toils on the stormy wave,
O'er the deep where my sons are lying;
And the wintry winds around me rave
Whilst with aching heart I'm crying,
Codling, fresh codling; codling alive!

III

God help the gallant fishermen
That brave the wild sea cheerly;
And send them safely home again
To the hearts that love them dearly.
Codling, fresh codling; codling alive!

IV

Oh, I left my children at their play;
To win their bread I'm trying;
And my thoughts are with them all the way,
As from door to door I'm crying,
Codling, fresh codling; codling alive!

V

Oh, I care not for the frost and snow,
Nor the cold drift round me flying;
But I tremble when the wild winds blow,
And with anxious heart I'm crying,
Codling, fresh codling; codling alive

Oh, the Wild, Wild Moors.

I

My heart's away in the lonely hills,
Where I would gladly be—
On the rolling ridge of Blackstone Edge,
Where the wild wind whistles free!
There oft in careless youth I roved,
When summer days were fine;
And the meanest flower of the heathery waste
Delights this heart of mine!
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
And the stormy hills so free;
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
The sweet wild moors for me

II

I fain would stroll on lofty Knowl,
And Rooley Moor again;
Or wildly stray one long bright day
In Turvin's bonny glen!

The thought of Wardle's breezy height
Fills all my heart with glee,
And the distant view of the hills so blue
Bring tears into my e'e!
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
And the stormy hills so free;
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
The sweet wild moors for me!

III

Oh, blessed sleep, that brings in dreams
My native hills to me;
The heathery wilds, the rushing streams,
Where once I wandered free!
'Tis a glimpse of life's sweet morning light,
A bright angelic ray,
That steals into the dusky night,
And fades with waking day!
Oh, the lonely moors, the breezy moors,
And the stormy hills so free;
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
The sweet wild moors for me

My Croodling Dove.

I

Oh, have you seen my bosom's queen?
Oh, have you seen my dear?
She's stolen the summer from the scene,
And left the winter here!
If you should meet those eyes so sweet,
I warn you to beware;
They'll plant love's dart deep in your heart,
And leave it in despair!

Chorus—

Oh, my love, my only love;
There's witchery about thee!
My little bright-eyed croodling dove,
I cannot live without thee!

II

The green field lights up with her smile;
The daisies kiss her feet;
The cowslip nods with dainty wile,
To catch her glances sweet;

The little rosebuds clap their hands
To greet that lovely face,
And every sweet its dour sends
To win my darling's grace!

Chorus—

Oh, my love, my only love;
There's witchery about thee!

III

The sunshine dallies with her hair
Till evening shades steal on,
And still, enamoured, lingers there
Long after daylight's gone;
And there all night, in slumbers sweet,
The lovesick truant lies,
And peeps out from her curls to meet
The morning in her eyes!

Chorus—

Oh, my love, my only love;
There's witchery about thee!

IV

The young winds follow her all day,
Like lovers in the wake,
With many a fond complaining lay,
Still sighing for her sake;
They crowd about her rosy lips
Their nectar'd sweets to win;
And chase her, as away she trips,
To taste her breath again!

Chorus—

Oh, my love, my only love;
There's witchery about thee!

V

The wild birds listen to her song
With sweet and glad surprise;
The rain-drops halt in downward throng
To look into her eyes:
She fills the rosy glow of day
With love's enchanting light,
And when she takes herself away
It might as well be night!

Chorus—

Oh, my love, my only love;
There's witchery about thee!
My little bright-eyed croodling dove,
I cannot live without thee!

As I went Crooning on my Way.

[_]

Air—“My bridheen bawn masthore.”

I

As I went crooning on my way,
With free and careless mind;
A wild bird of the summer day,
To pleasant life inclined;
I met a maid whose charms divine
Woke love within my breast,
And since that hour this heart of mine
Has never been at rest.

II

In matchless form and modest mien,
She moved with winsome grace;
I saw her two bewitching e'en,
I saw her lovely face;
Like the moon that from an envious cloud
Sails brightly o'er the scene,
She came, then vanished in the crowd,
And all was night again.

III

We met, like passing ships at sea,
Upon a sunny day;
She gave one fatal smile to me,
And went her destined way,
It was a fleeting angel's glance,
That melted into air;
It left me in a raptured trance,
It left me in despair.

IV

And oh! if fate will have it so
That we no more may meet,
To my last hour I'll pining go,
And bless that vision sweet;
For though we only met to part
And far asunder glide,
She left a jewel in my heart
Worth all the world beside.

Now's the Time to Remember the Poor.

[_]

(To an old English melody.)

I

From my warm ingle-cheek, on a keen winter's day,
When the woods and the fields were forlorn,
I could see the white slopes where the snow-mantle lay,
I could hear the cold blast in the thorn;
And as wild by my window the thick-falling snow
Drifted by on the wintry wind,
It threw a cold gloom o'er my snug shelter's glow,
And it saddened the thoughts of my mind.

II

Then a pretty bird came to my lattice to sing,
And he peeped through the storm at my nest;
The cold drift lay white on his trembling wing,
And it powdered his bonny red breast:
His little eye shone through my dim window pane,
As I paced o'er the soft warm floor;
And the sweet minstrel's song had this tender refrain,
“Now's the time to remember the poor!”

III

Then I crept to my hearthstone, so cosy and bright,
Which the rage of the tempest defied,
And I pensively mused on the shelterless wight
That was wand'ring and shiv'ring outside;
And I thought, with a sigh, of the hardship and pain
Which the houseless and old endure;
And I said, as I looked through my window again,
“Now's the time to remember the poor!”

IV

How little we dream when we're sheltered and glad,
Whilst the cold blasts of winter are keen,
Of the poor and the lonely, the sick and the sad,
That are mourning in corners unseen:
But this life it is short, both to high and to low,
And there's nought in the world that's sure;
We were bare when we came here, and bare we must go—
“Now's the time to remember the poor!”

It's Time to be Joggin' Away.

[_]

Air—“Grana Waile.”

I

When pitchers are empty an' pouches are bare,
It's time to be joggin' away;
When they're grievin' the heart an' they're stintin' the fare,
It's time to be joggin' away:
When they're snappin' an' fratchin' an' peevishly catchin'
At th' best that a body can say;
When love's taen amiss, with a winterly kiss,
It's time to be joggin' away.

II

At the close of the day, when the sun has gone down,
It's time to be joggin' away.
When night draws a curtain of deepenin' frown,
It's time to be joggin' away:

When the sky has no moon, an' from dark clouds aboon
No star shows a glimmerin' ray;
When the journey is lone, an' the gatherin' winds moan,
It's time to be joggin' away.

III

When slander is loud, an' when tricksters are proud,
It's time to be joggin' away.
When truth meets with slight, an' when craft wins the fight,
It's time to be joggin' away;
When rascals grow bold, an' when cronies grow cold,
An' cross to the opposite way,
When foemen look sly, an' when neighbours look shy
It's time to be joggin' away.

IV

When the night brings no rest, an' the daylight no cheer,
It's time to be joggin' away;
When the heart's full of pain, an' the head full of care,
It's time to be joggin' away;
When favours are sold, an' affection grows cold,
An' kindness begins to decay;
When friendship has fled, an' we live with the dead,
It's time to be joggin' away.

V

When the shank's growin' slim, an' the eyes growin' dim,
It's time to be joggin' away;
When the foot totters slow, an' the pulse flutters low,
It's time to be joggin' away;
When the blood's gettin' thin, an' we're wearied wi' din,
It draws to the close of the day;
Then farewell to all, for the passing bells call,—
It's time to be joggin' away!

Farewell!

I

The light of day is dying
Beyond the heaving sea;
The plaintive wind is sighing
Across the fading lea:
Farewell, farewell!
The fire burns low, and I must go,
To wander far alone;
Farewell!

II

Farewell, the scenes of childhood;
Life's hopeful dream is o'er;
Farewell to field and wildwood;
I shall return no more:
Farewell, farewell!
Fate wills it so, and I must go,
To wander far alone;
Farewell!

III

Spring will come with wildflowers
To gem my native shore;
And June will deck the green bowers
That I shall see no more:
Farewell, farewell!
Fate wills it so that I must go,
To wander far alone;
Farewell!

IV

Farewell, my love, for ever,
From thee, too, I must part;
To know thee, and to sever.—
The tale of this sad heart:
Farewell, farewell!
When roses grow on winter's snow,
I'll come to thee again;
Farewell!

I can't tell how to Woo.

I

These women all, both short and tall,
Are fluttering to and fro,
With dainty wile, and witching smile;
But I can let them go:
For, I know not, I care not,
I can't tell how to woo;
And fate will have her way, brave boys,
Whatever a man may do.

II

Bell's proud and high, and she struts by
With her neb cocked in the air;
She cannot see such folks as I,
But that brings me no care:
For, I know not, I care not,
I can't tell how to woo;
And fate will have her way, brave boys,
Whatever a man may do.

III

The miller's Jane's a dainty queen,
With a twinkle in her e'e;
A sweeter rosebud ne'er was seen;
But she'll never bloom for me:
For, I know not, I care not,
I can't tell how to woo;
And fate will have her way, brave boys,
Whatever a man may do.

IV

Yet, soon or late, we all must mate;
It is the lot of man;
But, till I meet my kindly fate,
I'll frisk it while I can:
For, I know not, I care not,
I can't tell how to woo;
And fate will have her way, brave boys,
Whatever a man may do.

I Met with a Doleful Wight.

I

Oh, I met with a doleful wight,
With his elbows on his knees;
His face was in mournful plight,
For his heart was ill at ease.
He sat on an old tree-root,
In a shady nook, alone;
He was tattered from head to foot,
And this was his weary moan,—
Oh, I married a shrew
For her gold so fine;
Now the gold is gone,
And the shrew is mine!

II

The man is a paltry knave
That can coldly woo for pelf;
He's a mean and a heartless slave
Whose centre is all himself:

He travels on sunless ways;
His life is a funeral knell
Of loveless nights and days;
I know the sad truth too well.
Oh, I married a shrew
For her gold so fine;
Now the gold is gone,
And the shrew is mine!

III

Oh, the treasures are dearly bought
That canker the mind with care,
And the spirit is mean that's caught
In a cold and greedy snare:
But the jewel of heaven is love,
The light and the life of man;
The brightest ray from above,
That shines on his mortal span.
Oh, I married a shrew
For her gold so fine;
Now the gold is gone,
And the shrew is mine!

IV

Oh, I'm tired of this life of mine,
For I wander without a friend;
And at every step I pine
To get to the journey's end.

To barter sweet love for gold
Is the poorest exchange below;
And to live with a heart that's cold
Is the bitterest lot to know.
Oh, I married a shrew
For her gold so fine;
Now the gold is gone,
And the shrew is mine

In a May Morning, Early.

I

As I crossed the fields with my milking pail,
In a May morning, early,
A bright-eyed lad came along the vale,
And said that he loved me dearly;
He woo'd me in whispers, with many a vow;
He kissed me, and said he would marry, I trow;
I wish in my heart he was here just now,
In a May morning, early.

II

I shall never forget that sweet spring-tide,
In a May morning, early;
Nor the wild-bird's song on that greenwood side,
In a May morning, early;

I shall never forget what my love did say;
Nor the light of his blue eyes' witching play;
Nor the path along which he walked away,
In a May morning, early.

III

Now I pace the fields with many a sigh,
In a May morning, early;
And I gaze down the vale with a tearful eye,
In a May morning, early;
And, should I not see my love before
The winter has whitened the hedges o'er,
The flowers of spring will bloom no more
For me, in a morning early!

I Pray Thee, Love, Let me in.

[_]

To an old tune.

I

It rains, it hails, it snows, it blows,
And I've got wet through all my clothes;
So, I pray thee, love, let me in.

II

What brings you here at dead of night?
Go back, and come in broad daylight,
If you want me to let you in.

III

I cannot rest away, my dear;
'Tis love of thee that brings me here;
So, I pray thee, now, let me in.

IV

These doors are open all the day;
In the morning, if you've aught to say,
Then, you may come freely in.

V

O'er moor and moss, without a light,
I've wander'd all this stormy night;
So, I pray thee, love, let me in.

VI

The legs that brought you wand'ring here,
May take you back again, my dear;
For, I don't mean to let you in.

VII

With wet and cold I'm nearly dead;
My teeth are chattering in my head;
So, I pray thee, love, let me in.

VIII

Your teeth may chatter, and so may you,
Till the rain has drenched you through and through;
But I don't mean to let you in.

IX

I fain would sit down by the fire
An hour or two; that's my desire;
So, I pray thee, love, let me in.

X

Go home, my dear, and dry your clothes,
And creep to bed with soft repose;
Your mother will let you in.

XI

The wind blows cold and the rain is dree;
But the night's not half so cold as thee;
Farewell; for I can't get in.

XII

If thy heart is right, put up the banns,
And let the parson join our hands;
And then, I will let thee in.

Oh, the Summer's Sweet.

I

Oh, the summer's sweet when lovers meet,
And posies kiss the rover's feet;
When soaring larks salute the day,
And milkmaids through the meadows stray.
Then raise the song,
And chant it well,
As we jog it along
O'er hill and dell;
For what'll betide no man can tell!

II

With lingering feet we'll lounge along
Where hawthorn blooms the hedges throng;
And through the rustling greenwood stray,
Where straggling sunbeams streak the way.
Then raise the song,
And chant it well,
As we jog it along
O'er hill and dell;
For what'll betide us who can tell?

III

By sweet sequestered nooks we'll fare,
Where dewy bluebells scent the air;
And watch the squirrel's airy bounds,
While the throstle's song the wood resounds.
Then raise the song,
And chant it well,
As we jog it along
O'er hill and dell;
For what'll betide us who can tell?

IV

In scented meadows we'll delay
To tumble in the new-mown hay,
While the mower whets his scythe and sings
Of country fun and wedding-rings.
Then raise the song,
And chant it well,
As we jog it along
O'er hill and dell;
For what'll betide us who can tell?

V

On banks of wild thyme we will play,
Where cowslip's nod to the brooklet's lay;
Where the limpid stream meanders bright,
With glittering glee in the golden light:

Then raise the song,
And chant it well,
As we jog it along
O'er hill and dell;
For what'll betide us who can tell?

VI

And should some bonny lass catch my e'e,
I'll let her go if she's not for me;
And merrily on I'll rove alone,
For all will be well when I meet my own.
Then raise the song,
And chant it well,
As we jog it along
O'er hill and dell;
For what'll betide us who can tell?

A Little Brief Authority.

I

Not every one who readeth Lamb
Can eat lamb to his supper;
Nor is a man a battering-ram
Because he's fond of Tupper;
And he who thinks he must be crabbed
Who studies Crabbe's mistaken,
As much as he who call's him “hog”
Who's deeply read in Bacon.

II

A man may study Chatterton,
Yet not be very mouthy;
And he who goes right in for North
May still incline for Southey.
The reader who delights in Scott
May relish something subtler
And he may not be quite a sot,
Though very fond of Butler.

III

A frosty man may thaw his heart
With Burns's glowing lyric;
Or he may soar with Shelley's lark,
And dance with cheerful Herrick.
A clown may sadly ponder o'er
The “Serious Call” of Law, sir;
And he sit at home, yet go
On pilgrimage with Chaucer.

IV

A man who is no cricketer
With Bowles may be delighted;
An old man may, with solemn Young,
Get gloriously benighted.
A man may live in Reading town
Who cannot read a book, sir;
And an hungry man can hardly help
But love Eliza Cook, sir.

V

The student who Longfellow reads
May be a dumpy figure;
In pale Kirke White he may delight,
And yet be like a nigger.
An exile may be deep in Home,
Yet far away from thither;
And he who leaneth unto Gay,
May still incline to Wither.

VI

A man may handle Mallet well,
And yet know nought of Mason;
In Barbour he may take delight,
Who hates a barber's bason.
The man who Hunts with Robin Hood,
In Paine may take a pleasure;
A simple maid may find a charm
In Swain's delightful measure.

VII

A brisk man may be “grave” with Blair,
And never look at Barrett;
And he may read a deal of Clare,
Who doesn't care for claret;
A dark-haired wight may turn to Gray,
A snowy pate to Browning;
And a man may like the works of Smiles,
And yet be always frowning.

VIII

A man may daily go to Mill,
Who nothing knows of Cotton;
A sad heart may delight in Fane,
And cheerful be with Wotton:
A mason may know nought of Lodge;
A pris'ner nought of Bailey;
A slow man may run over Swift;
A friend De Foe read daily.

IX

A man may have a merry heart,
Who cannot do with Tickell;
With Hervey he may go apart,
And yet hate sauce and pickle.
A man may like a bit of Hogg,
Who cannot stomach collop;
And a modest maiden, prim and shy,
May be inclined to Trollope.

Little Cattle, Little Care.

I

Laddie, good dog, the day-wark's done,
The sun's low in the west;
The lingering wild birds, one by one,
Are flitting to the nest:
Mild evening's fairy fingers close
The curtains of the day,
And the drowsy landscape seeks repose
In twilight shadows grey.
Little cattle, little care;
Lie thee down, Laddie!

II

We never owned a yard o' ground,
We'n little wealth in hand;
But thee an' me can sleep as sound
As th' richest folk i'th land;

And when they're all alike laid down,
And lapped in dreamless snooze,
Between a monarch and a clown
There's not a pin to choose.
Little cattle, little care;
Lie thee down, Laddie!

III

Let the miser hug his glittering prey,
An' think his joys complete;
Let him root among it all the day,
An' count it o'er at neet;
He can trail it but to th' end o'th road,
Where life's short tale is told;
Then death takes off his golden load,
And leaves him in the cold.
Little cattle, little care;
Lie thee down, Laddie!

IV

Then come, good dog, the day-wark's done;
We'll let the world roll by;
There's never a king below the sun
As happy as thou an' I;

For though kings lie on beds of down,
Sweet sleep they seldom find;
An' there's not a jewel in all the crown
That's worth a quiet mind.
Little cattle, little care;
Lie thee down, Laddie!

Old Ireland shall Blossom Again!

[_]

Air—“The valley lay smiling before me.”

I

Through Wicklow's green glens and wild mountains
I roved at the fall of the year,
When the wildflower droops by the fountains,
And the leaves of the woodland are sere;
When garden and green field no longer
Yield sweets to the wandering bee,
And the cloud-mantled streamlets meander
Through flowerless plains to the sea.

II

As I mused upon Ireland's dark story,
'Mong homesteads and altars despoiled,
Through the ruined walls, weed-grown and hoary,
The wind sang its requiem wild;

But there rose from the heart of its wailing
This low-chanted, cheerful refrain,
Over all its wild sadness prevailing,
“Old Ireland shall blossom again!”

III

Still wand'ring on, pensive and dreary,
Beneath the sad yew-tree's dark shade,
Through the lone ground where, hopeless and weary,
The sons of the Green Isle were laid;
In the twilight a small bird came winging
O'er the graves of the famished and slain,
And I heard the sweet strain in his singing,
“Old Ireland shall blossom again!”

IV

Then I lingered around a lone shieling,
A poor peasant's sorrowful nest,
Where in hunger and heart-stricken feeling
He gathered his brood to his breast;
And I heard as mild evening's soft vesper
Died out on the shelterless glen,
From the wild thatch, a sweet floweret whisper,
“Old Ireland shall blossom again!”

V

Thus musing on Erin's sad story,
As twilight sank down on the lea,
While murmurs of long-faded glory
Came plaintively up from the sea,
I saw, in the daylight's declining,
The bright stars of hope light the main;
And the sweet song stole down in their shining,
“Old Ireland shall blossom again!”

VI

Now the bright sun of justice is rising
In splendour beyond the wide sea;
And Old Ireland, her foemen despising,
At last shall be friendly and free:
She shall rise from her bondage and sorrow;
From her long night of famine and pain,
She shall wake to another glad morrow,
And blossom in beauty again!

When the Ships come Sailing in.

I

God prosper long the good old town,
The toilful and the free;
For she has bravely broken down
The toll-bar of the sea:
And now the victory is won
For which we fought so long,
To all the wide world thus shall run
The burden of my song:
Let it float in free, from the open sea;
Wide brotherhood shall win;
And the good old town shall smile again,
When the ships come sailing in!

II

The ocean to mankind belongs;
You cannot tax its waves;
'Tis the stormy highway of the strong;
With free delight it laves
The shores of earth's far sundered lands;
And on its heaving breast,
With equal pride, from distant strands,
It brings what each yields best:

Let it float in free, from the open sea;
Wide brotherhood shall win;
And the good old town shall smile again,
When the ships come sailing in!

III

The bounteous gifts of nature range
Each on its favoured shore;
The whole wide world is man's exchange,
His market and his store:
For kindly harmony designed,
Earth's varied fruits are sent;
For mutual benefit combined,
And friendly commerce meant:
Let it float in free, from the open sea;
Kind botherhood shall win;
And the good old town shall smile again,
When the ships come sailing in!

Lapstone Song.

[_]

To an old Tune.

I

I am a lad of wax,
And a gallant man to boot, oh;
Though my skill in hemp and tacks
Is trodden under foot, oh;
When I was young, my eyes were bright,
And few could then resist 'em,
Though now there's but a waning light
In my poor solar system.

II

Last Spring, I took a wife,
And when I went to woo her,
I vowed to stick through life
Like cobbler's wax unto her:

I thought the parson's look was sly,
Whilst waiting for my tether;
And I saw a twinkle in his eye,
As he stitched us up together.

III

I took her to my cot,
To love her and to cherish;
I thought my married lot
The happiest in the parish;
At first, the days ran sweetly by,
And all was sunny weather;
And, we buckled to, my love and I,
Like sole and upper leather.

IV

Her voice was low and mild,
My winsome little Nancy;
She was gentle as a child;
At least I so did fancy;
My heart was hers, and oft I said
I ne'er in aught could thwart her;
But, before I'd been a twelve-month wed,
I found I'd caught a Tartar.

V

Now oft the waves ran high,
And nasty winds were screaming;
And Nancy's vixen-cry
Awoke me from my dreaming;

I sometimes wished she was a man,
Because she needed welting;
Yet one kind word from my dear Nan
Would set my heart a-melting.

VI

I took her to my heart,
When we were tacked together;
And now, we'll never part,
In spite of changeful weather:
For, now and then, we do agree,
And, though she's sometimes snarling,
To my last hour, my Nan shall be
The fond old cobbler's darling.

Unfurl the Flag!

I

Unfurl the grand old flag again;
Let the wild wind kiss its folds!
Lead on the land, with might and main,
Against oppression's holds!
The noble strife shall never cease;
Above the raging storm,
Our steadfast cry shall still be Peace,
Retrenchment and Reform!
March on, march on;
'Tis Justice leads the way!
March on, march on,
Till victory crowns the day!

II

What domineering band is this
That claims defiant sway?
And who are these that dare resist
A free-born people's way?

How long shall patient Britain strive
Against this selfish crew;
And toiling millions waste their lives
To serve the feudal few?

Chorus—

Unfurl the grand old flag again;
Let the wild wind kiss its folds!

III

Once more, tyrannic privilege
Its haughty crest uprears!
Now, who shall rule this land of ours,
The people or the Peers?
Arise; and like your sires of yore,
Lay hostile barriers low;
And sweep from freedom's path, once more,
The proud, insulting foe!

Chorus—

Unfurl the grand old flag again;
Let the wild wind kiss its folds:

Hark! 'tis a sound of gathering storm;
What means this swelling roar?
'Tis a mighty nation rising up
To claim its rights once more!
Like waves of ocean, glancing bright,
They come in strong array,
For liberty and human right,
And who shall bar their way?

Chorus—

Unfurl the grand old flag again;
Let the wild wind kiss its folds!
Lead on the land, with might and main,
Against oppression's holds!
The noble strife shall never cease;
Above the raging storm
Our steadfast cry shall still be Peace,
Retrenchment and Reform.
March on, march on,
'Tis Justice leads the way!
March on, march on,
Till victory crowns the day!

I Know What I Know.

[_]

In Monosyllable.—Founded on an ancient rhyme.

I

I once heard a priest
Say a close tongue was best;
An' he that says least
Shall be most at rest;
And, as far as I've wrought
I have still found it so;
Then, I'll say next to nought,
But I know what I know;
Know, know;
I know what I know.

II

Yet a blind man may see
By that which I say,
What strange things they be
That do fall in my way;

He may guess all I mean
From what I do show;
Then part I will screen,—
But, I know what I know;
Know, know;
I know what I know.

III

Some men spend their time
In trick and in strife,
That so they may climb
The proud hills of life;
Yet, when the day's o'er,
They sleep with the low;
I need not say more,—
But, I know what I know;
Know, know;
I know what I know.

IV

Some sleek rogues there be,
Who do cant by the way,
That, so, they may slee
Steal down on their prey;

Fierce wolves are these knaves,
Like lambs that bleat so:
Yet my breath I will save,—
But, I know what I know:
Know, know;
I know what I know.

V

I have liv'd a good while,
And I've seen a good deal
Of mirth, and of toil,
And of woe, and of weal;
But when a man's old,
I do think it is well
For to rest in the fold
Where the tir'd folk do dwell;
Dwell, dwell;
Where the tir'd folk do dwell.

VI

Then keep a wise tongue
If you'd be at rest;
And do nought that's wrong,
If you would be blest;

And, when your days cease,
And you come to ground,
Your end shall be peace,
And your sleep shall be sound;
Sound, sound;
Your sleep shall be sound.

Three Jovial Huntsmen.

I

It's of three jovial huntsmen, and a-hunting they did go;
And they hunted, and they halloo'd, and they blew their horns also;
Look you there!
And they all were very merry as they gathered in the vale,
For every man amongst them was as brisk as bottled ale;
Look you there!

II

They were staunch in wind and limb, and they were sound from top to toe;
Their eyes were bright as frosty stars, their hearts were in a glow;
Look you there!
And they chirruped, and they chuckled, and they tried their pleasant wits,
As they capered up and down, to show the mettle of their tits;
Look you there!

III

Then they snuffed the sweet fresh morning air, and gathered up their reins,
And the blood began to gallop through their healthy country veins;
Look you there!
Says one, “My lads, I'm fain I'm wick, to join the good old play;
For there's nought in all this world can lick a jolly hunting day;”
Look you there!

IV

“So mind your e'en,” said he, “an' keep your noses well i'th wind;
An' then, by scent or seet, yo'll leet o' something to your mind;
Look you there!
We shall range the bonny country, lads; an' if we miss the game,
Why, in a hundred years or so, you'll find it all the same;
Look you there!

V

Their horses they were eager, and the hunters they were keen;
And they longed to sweep the dew away that twinkled on the green;
Look you there!
And they fidgetted, and frisked about, until the horn did blow;
And then, away o'er hill and dale, these hearty lads did go;
Look you there!

VI

Then they hunted, an' they halloo'd, and the first thing they did find
Was an old corn-bogle in a field; and that they left behind;
Look you there!
One said it was a bogle, and another, he said, “Nay;
Its just a drunken tinker that has gone and lost his way!”
Look you there!

VII

Then they hunted, an' they halloo'd, and the next thing they did find
Was a turnip in a stubble-field, an' that they left behind;
Look you there!
One said it was a turnip, an' another he said, “Nay;
It's just a cannon-ball that old Noll Cromwell threw away.”
Look you there!

VIII

Then they hunted, an' they halloo'd, an' the next thing they did find
Was a cratchinly old pig-trough, an' that, too, they left behind.
Look you there!
One said it was a pig-trough, but another he said, “Nay;
It's some poor craiter's coffin,” —an' that caused them much dismay.
Look you there!

IX

Then they hunted, an' they halloo'd, and the next thing they did find
Was a jackdaw, lyin' cold and still, an' that they left behind.
Look you there!
One said it was a jackdaw, and another he said, “Nay;
It's nought but an' owd blackin'-brush that someb'dy's thrown away.”
Look you there!

X

They hunted, an' they halloo'd, and the next thing they did find
Was a bull-calf in a pin-fowd, an' that, too, they left behind;
Look you there!
One said it wur a bull-calf, an' another he said “Nay;
It's just a painted jackass that has never larnt to bray:”
Look you there!

XI

They hunted, an' they halloo'd, an' the next thing they did find
Was two fond lovers in a lane, an' these they left behind;
Look you there!
One said that they were lovers, but another he said, “Nay;
They're two poor wanderin' lunatics—come let us go away.”
Look you there!

XII

So they hunted, an' they halloo'd, till the setting of the sun;
An' they'd nought to bring away at last, when th' huntin'-day was done;
Look you there!
Then one unto the other said, “This huntin' doesn't pay;
But we'n powler't up an' down a bit, an' had a rattlin' day;
Look you there!

This humorous old hunting song, which I introduced into my country story, called “Old Cronies,” was not commonly known until it attracted the attention of my friend, the late Randolph Caldecott; whose felicitous pencil enriched it with a series of quaintly-beautiful Illustrations; and, since then it has had the honour of riding down upon the wings of his artistic genius to a fame which it never would have achieved by any merit of its own. The verses in italic are mine; the rest belong to the old song.

LANCASHIRE SONGS.

Lilter.

[_]

Air—“Robin Tamson's Siniddy.”

I

When Lilter comes to th' end o'th fowd,
An' touches th' tremblin' string, oh,
He tickles up both young an' owd,
An' sets their limbs a-swing, oh;
His music mends their scanty fare,
An' softens every pain, oh;
It soothes the weary heart o' care,
An' makes it hutchin'-fain, oh!
Bonny Lilter's here again,
Here again, here again;
Bonny Lilter's here again,
Wi'th merry bit o' timber!

II

The childer o' come buzzin' out,
Like humma-bees a-swarmin',
Wi' clappin' hands an' merry shout,
To Lilter's tuneful charmin'!
He makes 'em marlock up an' down,
An' sets their een a-blazing';
He makes 'em frolic through the town,
An' step to th' tune he plays in!
Bonny Lilter's here again,
Here again, here again;
Bonny Lilter's here again,
Wi'th merry bit o' timber!

III

At th' sound o'th fiddle's witchin' glee,
My breeches dance to th' tune, oh;
An' it makes me caper shoulder-hee,
Wi'th music i' my shoon, oh!
It clears away my care an' frets,
An' lifts me out o'th gutter;
It brings back happy days, an' sets
My heart i' merry flutter!
Lilter, pray tho, come again,
Come again, come again;
Lilter, pray tho, come again,
Wi'th bonny bit o' timber!

IV

When Lilter played his merry lay,
At th' end of harvest time, oh,
Lame Robin threw his crutch away,
His mettle grew so prime, oh!
He cracked his thumbs, an' danced to th' sound
O'th ditty blithe an' free, oh;
He cried, “There's nought on mortal ground
Shall ever conquer me, oh!”
Lilter, pray tho, come again;
Come again, come again;
Lilter, pray tho, come again,
Wi'th merry bit o' timber!

V

Good Lilter howd thy hond a bit,
An' let me dry my een, oh;
Some angel made that meltin' fit,
It touches me to the keen, oh!
It's surely groves above they hear
That soft bewitchin' strain in;
There's not a heart below can bear
Its tender, fond complainin'!
Bonny Lilter, come again,
Come again, come again;
Bonny Lilter, come again,
Wi'th tuneful bit o' timber!

VI

Oh, music, it's a lovely thing,
For man's delight invented;
To ease the heart of sorrowing,
The God of Heaven sent it!
Then blest is he whose spirit moves
To sweet celestial glee, oh;
And happy is the heart that loves
The sound of harmony, oh!
Oh, Lilter, come again, an' bring
That tuneful bit o' timber!

Th' Factory Bell.

I

Come, Billy, come; dost yer yon bell?
Thou'll ha' yon mill agate
Afore thou'rt up! Do stir thisel',
Or else thou'll be too late:
I know thou'rt tire't, my lad—I know;
What can a body do?
It's very cowd; but, frost or snow,
Thou knows thou'll ha' to goo!

II

An' th' north woint's blowin' keen an' shrill;
It's bin a stormy neet;
Thou'll ha' to run o' th' gate to th' mill;
It's thick wi' drivin' sleet:
There's not a candle left i'th house;
Thou'll don thisel' i'th dark;
Come, come, my lad; jump up at once,
An' hie tho to thi wark!

III

I can hardly keep up on my feet;
I'm full o' aches and pains;
An' I's ha' to wesh from morn to neet,
For very little gains.
It looks hard fortin' for us both,
But it's what we han to dree;
We mun do as weel's we con, my lad;
There's nobbut thee an' me!

IV

Come, come; I have thi stockin's here,
An' thi breeches, an' thi shoon;
Thou'll find thi jacket on yon cheer;
An' thi dinner's upo' th' oon.
I'll lock yon dur, an' I'll tak' th' keigh;
I think we's find o' reet;
So manage th' best thou con, my lad,
Till I come whoam at neet!”

V

Then not another word wur said;
But Billy, like a mon,
Geet up out of his little bed,
An' poo'd his stockin's on;
An' off he went, through sleet and snow,
With his dinner in a can;
He'd a bit o' oon-cake in his mouth,
An' he donned him as he ran.

VI

Some folk can lie till th' clock strikes eight;
Some folk may sleep till ten,
Then rub their e'en, an' yawn a bit,
An' turn 'em o'er again;
Some folk can ring a bell i' bed,
Till th' sarvant brings some tay;
But, weet or dry, a factory lad
Mun jump at break o' day!

100

Cradle Song.

I

Th' child cries i'th cradle;
Th' cake bruns o'th stone;
Th' cow moos i'th milkin' gap,
At th' end o'th loan.

II

The cat purs o'th hearthstone;
Th' clock ticks i'th nook;
Th' kettle sings o'th hob; an'
Th' pon hangs o'th hook.

101

III

Th' woint roars i'th chimbley;
Brings down the soot;
Mam knits, an' sings, an'
Rocks with her fuut.

IV

Nan's off a-churnin';
Dick's gone to th' barn;
Lap little Billy up,
To keep him warm.

V

Round Billy's curly yed,
Good fairies play;
Tentin' his little bed,
Till break o' day.

VI

One day brings sunshine;
Th' next day brings rain;
No day brings Billy's dad
Back here again.

102

VII

Sleep, little darlin', sleep;
God watch o'er thee!
Thou'rt o' that's left i'th world,
To comfort me!

The “bak-stone,” or baking-stone.

The rack-and-hook, in the chimney.

103

Owd Robin o' Quifter's.

[_]

Air—“Come send round the wine.”

I

Owd Robin o' Quifter's wur shaky an' thin;
He lived by his sel' up at th' Wyndy Bonk Steele;
He'd cramp in his fist, an' he're raither leet-gi'n,
Though threescore an' seven, an' never quite weel:
His white thatch geet scant; an' as time fleeted by,
He'd mony a chance of a daicent owd lass;
But cranky owd Robin wur greedy an' sly—
He wanted to catch one wi' plenty o' brass.

II

Says Robin one day, as he rubbed his owd pate,
“I'm weary o' lyin' in bed by mysel':
It's time to be pikein' a bit of a mate;
Though where I'm to find her it's hard for to tell:

104

I'd better buck up, an' be tootin' about,
Afore I get down into th' winter o' life;
There's a spark in me yet, an' afore it goes out,
I'll don my best duds an' look round for a wife.

III

“If hoo's winsome and bonny, a penniless lass
May tickle a young lover's fanciful e'e;
But a good-lookin' owd un, wi' plenty o' brass,
Would do very weel for the likin's o' me:
But whether hoo's youngish or whether hoo's owd,
Wi' bonny love-locks, or with yure gettin' grey,
If hoo's ought in her pocket, I'll try to have howd—
I'll ha' one o' some mak', let 't leet as it may!”

IV

His owd crony Tummas, that keawer't at th' hob-end,
Cried, “What ails yon wench up at th' Whittaker Fowd?
Hoo's just meet the woman for thee, my owd friend,
For hoo's very weel off, an' hoo's forty year owd:
Hoo's a house of her own, an' a nice bit o' lond;
Hoo's a honsome, an' clivver, an' mettlesome lass;
An' hoo'll jump at thee yet; thou looks weel when thour't donned;
Hoo's seventeen stone weight,—thou'll ha' lots for thi brass!”

105

V

Says Robin to Tummas, “Thou's hit it, bi th' mass!
I'll goo an' see Matty, at th' Whittaker Fowd;
It's just as thou says; hoo's a farrantly lass,
An' her faither has laft her a poke-full o' gowd!”
Then he trimmed hisse!' up. T'wur a winterly day
When th' owd craiter started to crapple up the broo;
An' he stopt mony a time to tak' woint upo' th' way;
But he londed at last, with a great deal ado.

VI

“Lord bless us o', Robin; what's brought yo up here?
This weather's enough for to gi one their deeoth!
Come nearer to th' fire, mon, and tak' yon arm-cheer;
Yo'n come'd a rough road, an' yo're quite out o' breath.
Our lasses are weshin', an' I'm up to th' neck;
An' which gate to turn me I hardly can tell;
But th' wark mun be done, or else o' goes to wreck:
Here's th' papper to read while yo're restin' yorsel'.

VII

“Eh, Matty, lass; th' papper's o' no use to me!
There's al'ays a some'at one's temper to vex;
But th' truth on it is, that, wi' thinkin' o' thee,
I've come'd off fro' whoam an' forgotten mi specks;

106

But I'm fain to sit down; an' I think we's ha' rain,
Or some mak o' down-fo', before set o' sun;
For i'th' smo' o' mi back I've a terrible pain;
I know very weel there's a change comin' on.”

VIII

Then, hour after hour, he sat coughin i'th nook,
An' his bleary owd e'en followed Matty about;
An' hoo now an' then dropt him a comical look,
Or a bit of a joke, as hoo went in an' out.
At last he said, “Matty, thou'rt full o' thi wark;
I could like to look at tho, my lass, now an then;
But I'd better be gooin' afore it gets dark;
An' when mun I come up an' see tho again?”

IX

“Eh, Robin,” said Matty, “be guided by me,
An' bother no more about trailin' so far;
It's a greight way to come for an owd chap like thee,
An' it's but a lost gate, for it brings tho no nar:
It's o' very weel for a man to get wed
To a suitable mate, if he'll tak' her i' time;
But it's raither too late when he's nearly hauve deeod,
An' his frosty pow glitters wi' winterly rime.

107

X

“A chap that lies gruntin' o' day on a couch,
With a broken-down carcase, fro' pain never free,
Th' weather-glass in his back, an' his e'en in his pouch'
Mun try someb'dy else, for he'll not do for me:
Go an' say thi prayers, Robin; thou needs no moore wife
Than a pig needs a pouch, or a duck an umbrell;
Look out for a nurse for thi last bit o' life,
And wind up thi days in a bed bi thisel!”

108

Noather Cobs nor Sleck.

I

Good mornin', folk! What's o' this din?
Hello; it's th' weshin' day!
I couldn't help but just look in,
As I coom by this way:
Nanny; how are yo comin' on?
I see yo're up to th' neck:”
“Nay; I can hardly tell you, John;
I'm noather cobs nor sleck.”

II

“But come an' tak' this corner cheer,
Till I can get my breath;
An', pray yo, shut that window, theer;
It's givin' me mi deeoth:

109

I doubt I'm welly done, owd lad;
This is a weary pleck:
An' then our childer drives one mad—
They're noather cobs nor sleck.

III

“An' we'n some nasty neighbours, too;
They're noan o'th sort for me—
A tattlin', two-faced, borrowin' crew;
This doorstep's never free:
If I'd my will wi' sich like folk,
They'd very soon ha'th seck;
An' I cannot bide to yer their talk—
It's noather cobs nor sleck.”

IV

“I'll tell tho what it is, owd lass—
Thou's let ill o' thi feet;
Or else thou'rt badly hipped, bi th' mass;
For nought i'th world seems reet:
But what, thou's nought again yor Jem;
He's noan i'th dirty peck?”
“Eh, pray tho, John, don't mention him—
He's noather cobs nor sleck.”

110

V

“Nanny, said he, “if I wur thee
I'd go straight off to bed;
For, if I've ony sense i' me,
Thou'rt noan reet i' thi yed!”
Then, gatherin' up his limbs, he said,
As he geet howd o'th sneck,
“Good day! I've had enough o' this—
It's noather cobs nor sleck.”

Noather Cobs nor Slack.—Neither large coal nor small coal.

111

Dinner-Time.

[The wife comes running into the house.

Heigh, Mary; run for the fryin'-pon;
An' reitch that bit o' steak;
I see thi faither comin', yon;
Be sharp; for goodness sake!
He's as hungry as a hunter;
An' there'll be a bonny din
If he finds o' out o' flunter,
An' nought cooked, when he comes in!

II

“Lord, bless my life; why, th' fire's gone out!
Whatever mun I do?
Here, bring a match, an' a greasy clout,
An' a bit o' chip or two:

112

An' look for th' ballis; doesto yer?
They're upo' th' couch, I think;
Or else they're hanged a-back o'th dur;
Or else they're under th' sink.

III

“An' tak' thoose dish-clouts off that cheer;
An' shift yon dirty shoon;
An' th' breakfast things are stonnin' theer;
Put 'em a-top o'th oon;
Be sharp; an' sweep this floor a bit:
I connot turn my back
To speighk to folk, but o' goes wrang,
An' th' house runs quite to wrack.

IV

“These chips are damp: oh, Lord o' me!
I'm sure they'n never brun:
There's no poor soul's warse luck than me
That's livin' under th' sun!
Now then; what keeps tho stonnin' theer;
Hangin' thy dirty thumbs?
Do stir thy shanks; an' wipe that cheer;
It's no use; here he comes!”

113

[The husband comes in from work.

“By th' mass; this is a bonny hole,
As ony i' this town!
No fire; no signs o' nought to height (eat);
Nowheer to sit one down!
I have to run whoam for a meal,
When th' bell rings at noontide,
An' I find th' house like a dog-kennel:
Owd lass, it's bad to bide!

VI

“Thou's nought to do, fro' morn to neet,
But keep things clean an' straight,
An' see that th' bits o' cloas are reet,
An' cook one's bit o' meight;
But thou's never done it yet, owd lass:
How is it? Conto tell?
Thou mends noan, noather; an', by th' mass,
I doubt thou never will!

VII

“It's quite enough to have to slave
Fro' soon i'th day to dark;
An' nip, an' scrat, an' try to save,
An' no thanks for one's wark:

114

No wonder that hard-wortchin' folk
Should feel inclined to roam
For comfort to an alehouse nook,
When they han noan at whoam.

VIII

“I'm fast: I don't know what to say;
An' I don't know what to do;
An' when I'm tired, at th' end o'th day,
I don't know where to goo:
It makes me weary o' my life
To live i' sich a den:
Here, gi's a bit o' cheese an' loaf;
An' I'll be off again!”

115

Howd Thi Tung!

Married Daughter:

I

Here, mother, tak this choilt a bit,
While I go look for Jem;
An' if I find out where he's sit,
I'll make it warm for him!
He'll oather have to mend his ways,
Or else I'll let him see
That he shall not have a quiet hour
By neet nor day, wi' me!

Mother:

II

Eh, Matty, lass, do howd thi tung,
An' keep thi temper still;
I connot bide to yer sich talk,
It makes me down-reet ill!

116

Thou worrits th' lad to that degree
Wi' thi tormentin' clack,
I wonder that he doesn't flee,
An' never ventur back.

Daughter:

III

Well, let him goo, an' welcome too,
If he can mend his shop;
I wouldn't stir th' length o' my shoe
To get him for to stop!
But while he's here there's one thing clear,
An' that he'll quickly see,—
There's never mon that steps a-floor
Shall ever conquer me!

IV

So reitch my bonnet down fro' th' hook,
An' I'll be off to th' town;
An' when I find his drinkin'-nook,
That's where I'll plant me down:
An' if he likes to stop a while,
Well, I'll just stop as lung;
But while I'm there I'll let him yer
A sample o' mi tung!

117

Mother:

V

My lass, that tung 'll toll thy knell:
Do mind what thou'rt about:
Thou'rt breedin' trouble for thysel',
An' that thou'll soon find out:
Thou'rt nearly eight-an'-twenty now;
It's time to ha' some wit;
Do keep thi tung between thi teeth,
An' bridle it a bit!

VI

When th' lad comes whoam, at th' edge o' dark,
Do let him have a rest;
A mon that's weary with his wark
Should find his own nook th' best:
An' don't go camplin' up an' down,
Like a wanderin' parish bell;
For while thou makes a foo o' Jem,
Thou'rt ruinin thisel'!

Daughter:

VII

Ay, there yo are; I'm wrong again;
I knew yo'd howd with him;
I think I've quite enough to do
To feight a chap like Jem!

118

An' my mother, too! Eh, dear o' me!
That's a nice come off, by th' mon!
Why, th' biggest foos i'th world han sense
To stick up for their own!

Mother:

VIII

Stick up, be hanged! Lord bless my life
I want a thing that's reet;
An' it grieves my heart to see a wife
That darkens her own leet!
Thou sulks and looks as feaw as sin;
An' thou snaps and snarls about:
Sich wark may drive the devil in,
But it'll never bring him out!

IX

Thou knows I've had my troubles, lass,
An' I've been sorely tried;
I've gone through many a bitter pass,
An' had to grin an' bide;
But if I'd said one hauve as much
As thou's said here to-neet,
Thi faither would ha' turn't me out;
An' he'd ha' sarv't me reet!

119

X

Now, Matty, thou'rt my own, thou knows:
I wouldn't tell tho wrong;
There's nought i'th world more dang'rous than
A sharp unruly tung:
Thou talks a deal o' foolish talk,—
Just as it comes i'th yed;
An' there's mony a thing—when it's too late—
Thou'll wish thou'd never said!

Daughter:

XI

Here, mother, gi' me howd o'th choilt;
I'll sit me down a bit;
I feel as if I're goin' to have
Another cryin' fit:
There's nought but trouble i' this world,
As far as I can see:
I sometimes think he doesn't care
For this poor thing an' me!

Mother:

XII

Thou foolish wench, come dry thi e'en,
An' put thi house i' trim;
An' make thi fireside sweet an' clean,
Both for thisel' and Jem:

120

An' then, my lass, I'll tell tho what,
I wish thou'd ponder well,—
There's nob'dy short o' trouble
That makes trouble for theirsel'!

121

The Little Doffer.

I

Amerry little doffer lad
Coom down to Shapper's mill,
To see if he could get a shop;
He said his name wur “Bill.”

II

“Bill what, my lad?” th' o'erlooker said;
“Arto co'de nought beside?”
“Oh, yigh,” said th' lad; “they co'n me things—
Sometimes,—'at's bad to bide!”

III

“But what's thi faither's name, my lad?
Thou'll surely tell me that!”
Said th' lad, “Some co'n him ‘Apple Dad,’—
His gradely name's ‘Owd Hat.’

122

IV

“My uncle Joe's co'de ‘Flopper Chops!’
An' sometimes ‘Owd Betide!’
They co'n him thoose at th' weighvin'-shops;
An' I know nought beside.”

V

Said th' o'erlooker, “I know owd Joe,—
He weighvs for Billy Grime;
But, what dun they co' thee, my lad,
When they co'n at dinner-time?”

VI

Th' lad grinned, an' said, “They never han
To co' me then,—no fear!”
Said th' o'erlooker, “How's that, my lad?”
Said th' lad, “I'm al'ays theer!”

VII

“My lad, thou looks a lively cowt;
Keen as a cross-cut saw;
Short yure, sharp teeth, a twinklin e'e,
An' a little hungry maw!

VIII

“But, wheer hasto bin wortchin at?
What's brought tho down our way?”
Said th' lad, “I wortched for Tommy Platt;
He's gan me th' bag, to-day.”

123

IX

‘Thou's brought thi character, I guess?”
Says th' lad, “yo're wrang, I doubt:”
Says th' o'erlooker to th' lad, “How's this?”
Says th' lad, “I'm better bowt!”

X

Said th' o'erlooker, “I never see
Sich a whelp sin I wur born!
But, I'll try what I can make o' thee:
Come to thi wark to-morn!”

124

The Mower's Song.

I

Th' layrocks i'th welkin;
An' throstles fro' tree to tree co'in!
Oh, the bright day;
Oh, the sweet hay;
An' a snatch of owd song helps the mowin'!

II

Mash-tubs an' barrels;
A mon connot al'ays be sober;
A mon connot sing
To a bonnier thing
Than a pitcher o' stingin' October!

125

III

Ladles an' galkers;
An' spiggits, an' forcits, an' coolers;
Foamin' quart pots,
An' little brown tots;
Delf bottles, an' wooden maut-shoolers!

IV

Owd shoon an' stockin's;
An' slippers that's made o' red leather!
My wife an' me
Can al'ays agree
To creep on a cowd neet together.

V

Blankets an' hippins;
A mon that lives single's a rover!
A little gowd ring's
A fanciful thing;
An' a mon that's weel wed lives i' clover!

VI

Neet-caps an' bowsters;
An' snug beds for tired folk to creep in!
We mun feight it out here;
So we'n lap it up theer;
For the life of a mon ends i' sleepin'!

126

VII

Heigh, jolly mowers;
It's dry wark to keep a scythe swinging';
Let's whet, lads; an' then
We'n at it again;
To the tune of the merry lark singin'!

127

Owd Bumper's Courtship.

I

Owd Bumper's frame wur seldom reet;
He're short o' breath; he'd failin' seet;
An' he're very shaky on his feet,
An' cranky in his motions:
But when he drew a fortnit's pay,
He couldn't rest by neet nor day;
For though his yed had long bin grey,
He'd bits o' youthful notions.

II

When th' pay-day coom, fro top to toe
He made his sel' a weary show;
With a tulip in his breast an' o,
To put an extra flash on:
A cauve-skin vest, a coat o' frieze,
Green fustian breeches; an' at th' knees,
Red ribbins flutterin' in the breeze—
An' owd tup drest lamb-fashion!

128

III

An' when he looked i'th seemin'-glass,
He said, “I think I's do, by th' mass!
An' now I'll goo an' see yon lass
At th' sign o'th Rompin Kitlin'!”
He looked like some'at in a play;
Or someb'dy that had gone astray;
An' every soul i'th fowd made way
For th' poor owd crazy witlin'.

IV

Now Mally wur a buxom dame;
A widow, full o' lively game;
An' her temper wur so hard to tame
That very few could guide her.
Hoo talked so pert, an' looked so bowd,
An' stept so freely through the fowd,
That hoo wur known to yung an' owd
By th' name o' “Pratty Strider.”

V

“Eh dear,” cried Mall, “is that yorsel'?
I'll tell yo what, yo're lookin' well!
I thought it wur, but couldn't tell,—
Yo're sich a blazin' dandy!

129

I ne'er see th' like! Lord bless us o!
Are yo boun' a-morris-dancin', Joe?
Or yo're for actin' in a show,
That yo're donned up so grandly?”

VI

Th' owd craiter winked his bleary e'e,
An' said, “I've come a-seein' thee,
My lass!” said Mall, “Good Lord o' me,
This is a stroke o' fortin'!”
An' there he sat the livelong day,
An' wouldn't let no mortal pay
Till he'd squander't every rap away
That he'd brought with him a-courtin'!

VII

His brass wur done, an' he'd had enoo;
But Mally tinkled th' poor owd foo
Till he thought he'd nought i'th world to do
But come an' hang his hat up:
So he whisper't with a drunken grin,
“Mally, my love, I'm short o' tin;
But bring another gallon in,
I know thou'll chalk me that up!”

130

VIII

“Nay, nay,” cried Mall; “down wi' thi dust!
I never sell my ale o' trust;
If thou'rt spent up, thou'd better just
Be gooin while it's dayleet:
Thou's lost what little wit thou had;
Another gill would drive tho mad;
So tak thi grey yed whoam, owd lad—
An' come again o'th' pay-neet!”

131

Heigh, Lads, Heigh!

I

Oh, I're fidgin' fain to drop my wark
When gloamin' shades coom softly down;
An' off I went, at th' edge o' dark,
To th' bonniest lass i' Rachda' town.
I're i' sich a flutter to tak the gate
That I'd hardly time to tee my shoon;
For my heart beat wild, with love elate,
An' my tinglin' feet kept time to th' tune.
Sing heigh, lads, heigh; sing ho, lads, ho;
What's to betide us who can know?

132

II

On wings of bliss, away I flew,
O'er moor, an' moss, an' posied lea;
I started mony a brid fro th' bough,
But never a brid as blithe as me:
An' when I coom to th' foamin' bruck,
Bonk-full o' wayter, spreadin' wide,
I took a sprint, went o'er like woint,
An' let a yard o' tother side.
Sing heigh, lads, heigh; sing ho, lads, ho;
What's to betide us who can know?

III

At seet o'th gable-end o'th cot
I rubbed my honds and marlocked round;
An' I trimmed my clooas fro yed to foot,
For I felt mysel' o' fairy ground:
But when I met wi' fickle Kate,
Hoo lost no time to let me see
That hoo'd set her cap another gate,
An' hoo wanted no more truck wi' me.
Sing heigh, lads, heigh; sing ho, lads, ho;
What's to betide us who can know?

IV

I hung about a while, an' I
Coom trailing whoam by th' leet o'th moon;
An' at every step I hove a sigh,
For my heart had sunk into my shoon:

133

An' when I'd getten a mile o'th gate
I sat me down by th' owd draw-well,
An' I felt i' sich a doleful state
That I'd hauve a mind to drown mysel'.
Sing heigh, lads, heigh; sing ho, lads, ho;
What's to betide us who can know?

VI

“What ails yon lad?” my faither said;
“There's summat has ta'en him sadly down;
For he sits i'th nook, an' he hangs his yed;
An' I doubt he's lost his gate to th' town.
Come, Robin; don't tak' thy luck so ill;
Keep up thy heart, and caper round;
For if one love winnot another will,
An' there's plenty o' lasses left o'th ground!”
Sing heigh, lads, heigh; sing ho, lads, ho;
What's to betide us who can know?

134

Jamie Raddle's Dog.

I

Oh, Jamie Raddle lost his dog
I'th thrang o' Turton fair,
While he wur dancin' in his clogs
To win a bran new pair;
But when he found poor Laddie gone,
He swore by th' leet o'th moon,
He'd find the chap that stoole his dog,
An let him feel his shoon.

II

“My dog, my dog! Through good an' ill,
An mony a journey dree,
Through swelterin' sun an' wintry chill,
Poor Laddie's gone wi' me!

135

I'll seek the mon, fro' morn to neet,
That's taen my dog away;
An' if that thief I chance to meet,
I'll make him rue the day!”

III

But Jamie's search had no avail,
His anger was in vain;
He never met wi' top nor tail
Of his good dog again;
For he chanced to spy a bonny lass,
That brought him to the floor;
An' he cried, “Yon woman's mine, by th' mass!
I'll look for th' dog no moore.”

IV

Then off he went, in hungry chase;
Through country an' through town,
He kept her track, fro' place to place,
Until he ran her down;
But Nanny didn't run so fast,
If I may tell yo plain,
For hoo wanted catchin'; so at last,
Hoo're very soon o'ertaen.

136

V

It wur just a week fro' Michaelmas
When Jamie took a wife,
But afore it coom to Candlemas
He're weary of his life.
At harvest-time he quaked wi' fear
At th' fate he had to dree;
An' when it geet to th' end o'th year
He're quite content to dee.

VI

“Oh, parson, parson, yo did wrong
To tether us so fast;
For now we's snap an' snarl as long
As ever life may last!
I paid yo four white shillin' when
Yo teed me to our Nan;
But I'll gi' yo th' price o' my best cow
To let me loose again!

VII

“Oh, my good dog; I went astray,
Like a fither-pated foo!
I wish I'd followed thee that day,
An' let this craiter goo:

137

My poor dog's gone, my hopes are flown;
It's useless to repine;
But I'd raither ha' th' warst whelp i'th town
Than sich a mate as mine!”

138

Toothsome Advice.

I

Eh, Nanny; thou'rt o' out o' gear;
Do, pray tho, go peep into th' glass;
Thou looks dirty, an' deawly, an' queer;
Whatever's to do witho lass?”
“Bless yo, Mary; if folk nobbut knew
The trouble I have wi' yon lad!—
He's at th' alehouse again, wi' th' owd crew:
It's enough to drive ony mon mad!”

II

“Eh, my wench I'm mich owder than thee,
An' it grieves me to see tho like this;
So, pray tho, now, hearken to me;
An' don't go an' tak it amiss:
Thou once wur nice-lookin', an' mild,
An' tidily donned, too, as well;
But, now, thou'rt quite sluttish an' wild
About both thi house, an' thisel'.

139

III

“It's hard to keep things reet with aught
That a body can manage to do;
But, a mon's sure to stray when he's nought
But dirt an' feaw looks to come to:
If thou wants to keep Jamie i'th house,
Thou mun bait th' trap wi' comfort, my lass;
Or, there's lots o' nooks, canty an' crouse,
Where he'll creep with his pipe an' his glass.

IV

“Thou mun keep his whoam pleasant an' sweet;
An everything fit to be seen;
Thou mun keep thi hearth cheerful an' breet;
Thou mun keep thisel' tidy an' clean;
A good-temper't wife will entice
To a fireside that's cosy an' trim;
Men liken to see their wives nice;
An' I'm sure that it's so wi' yor Jem.

V

“Thou mun have his meals cooked to his mind,
At th' reet time, an' daicently laid;
Tak pains; an' thou'll very soon find
How nice a plain dish can be made:
Good cookin' keeps likin' alive,
With a woman that's noan short o' wit;
An' there's never a craiter i'th hive
But's fond of a toothsome tit bit!'

140

VI

“Eh, Mary; I'm nought of a cook,
But just rough an' ready, yo known;
As for roastin' an' boilin' bi th' book,—
I'm o' little more use than a stone!”
“Don thi bonnet; an' hie tho wi' me;
I'll soon put tho reet, if thou'll come;
An' I'll larn tho some cookin', thou'll see,
That'll help to keep Jamie at whoam!”

141

Cock Robin.

[_]

Air—“With Wellington we'll go.”

I

Cock Robin coom o' daicent folk;
He was the village pride,—
The tightest, sweetest, soundest lad
That stept the moorlan' side:
Fro top to toe he stood six feet;
His voice was loud and clear;
But he could whisper low an' sweet
When a bonny lass was near.

II

Cock Robin had a witchin' tongue,
It made folk laugh an' cry;
An' he won the hearts of owd an' young
Wi'th love-leet in his eye:

142

An' as he wandered through the fields
He made the valley ring;
An' th' country lasses pricked their ears
To yer young Robin sing.

III

Young Robin was the blithest cowt
That frolicked on the green;
The king of o' the lads i'th fowd,
The darlin' of the scene:
With happy heart, in nature's lap,
He wandered wild and free,
Though mony a sweet lass set her cap
To catch his twinklin' e'e.

IV

But there was one dear lass that bore
From all the world the bell,
An' touched his heart for evermore
With love's delightful spell:
With modest charms, unknown to guile,
She made her conquest sweet,
An' brought the roving minstrel down
To warble at her feet.

143

V

Now Robin feels the mystic power
Of true love here below,
An' Robin owns the richest dower
That angels can bestow!
He flits no more from bough to bough;
His soarings wild have ceased;
His songs are all for Mally now,
An' th' little brids i'th neest!

144

Ill Life—Ill Luck.

I

As I coom trailin' whoam fro th' town,
I co'de at th' sign o'th Saddle,
To weet my whistle, an' keawer me down
For a crack wi' Jamie Raddle.
Th' owd lad wur talkin' like a book,
Wi' some neighbour lads to mind him;
So I crept close by, i'th chimbley nook,
Where I seldom fail to find him.

145

II

Said he: Yo known owd Bill at Kay's—
I never could abide him;
He's bin a wastrel o' his days,
An' wastrel luck betide him!
He's ta'en a job i' hond at last
That'll knock him into flinders,
For they say'n he's boun' to buckle fast
Wi' buxom Mall o' Pinder's.

III

Mall's fresh an' strong, an' warm an' young,
An' frisky as a kitlin';
Billy's grey an' owd, an' worn an' cowd,
An' dwindled to a thwitlin'.
While th' fire o' life burns breet an' strong
I' bouncin' Mall o' Pinder's,
It's flickered down i' poor owd Bill
To nought but wanin' cinders.

146

IV

He's done a deal o' careless wark,
An' never tried to mend it;
But he'll ha' to leave this cut i'th dark.
For want o' leet to end it.
Both warp an' weft are rough an' strong,
An' off a mangy fleece, oh;
An' he'll be weary of his weighvin' long
Afore he downs his piece, oh.

V

He's shaked a free leg in his prime,
An' kicked at o' afore him;
He's flirted through his summer time,
Till winter's creepin' o'er him.
He's ta'en no kind mate to his breast
To make a life-long friend on;
He's run his sands of life to waste,
An' he's nought left to depend on.

147

VI

Ill folk should tak ill fortin' well,
An' noather pout nor cry on't;
For a mon that makes his bed his sel'
Should never grudge to lie on't.
Then, lads, tak this last hint fro me—
As through life's wood yo're wendin',
Don't run by every bonny tree,
An' tak to th' scrunt at th' endin'!

148

Moorland Nell.

[_]

Air—“The Cruiskeen Lan.”

I

Oh, Jenny's lithe an' leet,
An' Mally's e'en are breet
As dewdrops on a sweet bluebell;
Nan's worth her weight i' gowd;
But there's not a lass i'th fowd
Like bonny little Moorlan' Nell, Nell, Nell,
Like bonny little Moorlan' Nell!

My love's a little posy,
Sweet an' shy an' rosy;

149

There's never mortal tongue can tell
How it thrills my heart wi' glee
To think hoo's fond o' me,
My winsome little Moorlan' Nell, Nell, Nell,
My darlin' little Moorlan' Nell!

II

Some don't know how to talk,
Some han to larn to walk,
Yet they never seem to do it well;
But Nell wur born complete
In everything that's sweet,
Oh, my bonny little Moorlan' Nell, Nell, Nell,
My darlin' little Moorlan' Nell!

Chorus—My love's a little posy,
Sweet an' shy an' rosy.

III

One sunny summer's day,
As Dame Natur sat at tay,
Hoo began to unbethink hersel';
An' hoo said, “I'll try my hond
At th' nicest lass i'th lond,
An' I'll have her christent Moorlan' Nell, Nell, Nel
I'll have her christent Moorlan' Nell!”

Chorus—My love's a little posy,
Sweet an' shy an' rosy.

150

IV

An' when Nelly coom to th' leet,
Dame Natur's e'en grew breet,
An' hoo clapped her honds and cried, “Well, well!
Hoo's very sweet an' smo',
But hoo's boun' to lick 'em o,
My pratty little Moorlan' Nell, Nell, Nell,
My bonny little Moorlan' Nell!”

Chorus—My love's a little posy,
Sweet an' shy an' rosy.

V

Th' owd craiter laughed an' cried,
For it touched her heart wi' pride;
An' hoo said, “It makes me hutchin'-fain!
This wench is th' topmost mark
Of o' my bonny wark,
An' I's never do the like again, again,
I's never do the like again!”

Chorus—My love's a little posy,
Sweet an' shy an' rosy.

151

Down Again!

I

Twur on a bitter winter neet,
When th' north wind whistled cowd;
When stars i'th frosty sky shone breet,
An' o' wur still i'th fowd;
I'd getten curl't up snug i' bed,
An' sleepin' like a top,
When Betty nudged my ribs, an' said,
“Oh, Jamie; do get up!”

II

I yawned, an' rubbed my e'en, an' said,
“Well, lass, what's th' matter now?”
Then Betty rocked hersel' i' bed,
An' said, “Get up, lad; do!”
“It's woint that troubles tho,” said I;
Thou'd better have a pill.”
“Oh, Jem,” said hoo; don't be a foo;
Thou knows what makes me ill!”

152

III

“Howd on, my lass,” said I; “howd on!”
An', bouncin' out o' bed,
I began to poo my stockin's on:
“Oh, do be sharp!” hoo said;
But, my things had gone astray i'th dark;
An', as I groped about,
Hoo said, “Oh, this is weary wark;
Thou'll ha' to goo without!”

IV

“Goo wheer? Wheer mun I goo?” said I,
As I rooted upo' th' floor:
“Goo wheer?” said hoo; “thou leather-yed;
For th' doctor, to be sure!”
“Eh, aye,” said I; “thou'rt reet, by th' mass!
An' if thou'll make a shift
To tak thi time a bit, owd lass,
Thou's have him in a snift!”

V

I donned my things, an' off I went
Like shot, through th' frosty neet;
Wi' nought astir but th' wintry woint,
An' nought but stars for leet:

153

An', as through th' dark an' silent fowd,
My clatterin' gate I took,
I spied owd Clem, crept out o'th cowd,
With his lantron, in a nook.

VI

“What's o' thi hurry, Jem?” said he,
As I went runnin' by:
“I connot stop to talk to thee;
We'n someb'dy ill,” said I.
“Who is it this time?” cried owd Clem;
“Is it Nan, or little Ben?”
“Nawe, nawe,” said I, “it's noan o' them;
Our Betty's down again!”

VII

“Well done,” cried Clem, “well done, owd lad!
Why, that makes hauve a score!”
“It does,” said I; that's what we'n had;
An', we's happen ha' some moore.”
“Never thee mind, my lad,” cried Clem;
“It's a rare good breed, owd mon;
An', if yo han a hundred moore,
God bless 'em every one!”

154

VIII

Th' doctor wur up in hauve a snift;
An' off I scutter't back,
Like a red-shank, through the wintry drift,
Wi' th' owd lad i' my track.
Th' snow wur deep, an' th' woint wur cowd
An' I nobbut made one stop,
At th' little cot at th' end o'th fowd,
To knock her mother up.

IX

I never closed my e'en that neet,
Till after break o' day;
For they kept me runnin' o' my feet,
Wi' gruel, an' wi' tay:
Like a scopperil up an' down i'th hole,
I're busy at th' owd job,
Warmin' flannels, an' mendin' th' fires,
An' tentin' stuff o'th hob.

X

It wur getten six or theerabout;
I're thrang wi' th' gruel-pon;
When I dropt mi spoon, an' shouted out,
“How are yo gettin' on?'

155

“We're doin' weel,” th' owd woman said;
“Thou'd better come an' see;
There's a fine young chap lies here i' bed;
An' he wants to look at thee!”

XI

I ran up i' my stockin'-feet;
An' theer they lay! By th' mon;
I thought i' my heart a prattier seet
I ne'er clapt e'en upon!
I kissed our Betty; an' I said,—
Wi' th' wayter i' my e'en,—
God bless yo both, my bonny lass,
For evermoore, Amen!

XII

“But do tak care; if aught went wrang
I think my heart would break;
An' if there's aught i'th world thou'd like,
Thou's nought to do but speak:
But, oh, my lass, don't lie too long;
I m lonesome by mysel';
I'm no use without thee, thou knows;
Be sharp, an' do get weel!

156

Owd Roddle.

I

Owd Roddle wur tattert an' torn,
With a bleart an' geawly e'e;
He're wamble, an' slamp, an' unshorn;
A flaysome cowt to see:
Houseless, without a friend,
The poor owd wand'rin slave
Crawled on to his journey's end,
Wi' one of his feet i'th grave:
Poor owd Roddle!

157

II

Owd Roddle wur fond of ale,
Fro' tap to tap went he;
An' this wur his endless tale,
“Who'll ston a gill for me?”
He crept into drinkin'-shops
At dawnin' o' mornin' leet;
He lived upo' barmy slops,
An' slept in a tub at neet:
Poor owd Roddle!

III

As Roddle one mornin'-tide
Wur trailin' his limbs to town,
A twinkle i'th slutch he spied,
“Egad, it's a silver crown!”
“Now, Roddle, go buy a shirt—
A shirt an' a pair o' shoon!”
“A fig for yor shoon an' shirts;
My throttle's as dry's a oon!”
Poor owd Roddle!

158

IV

“Come, bring us a weel-filled quart;
I connot abide a tot;
To-day I've a chance to start
With a foamin', full-groon pot!
This crown has a jovial look;
I'm fleyed it'll melt too fast;
But I'll live like a king i'th nook
As long as my crown'll last!”
Poor owd Roddle!

V

But he met with a friendly touch
That ended his mortal woes;
For he fell in a fatal clutch,
That turned up his weary toes:
Though they missed him i' nooks o'th own
Where penniless topers meet,
Nob'dy knew how he'd broken down,
Nor where he'd crept out o' seet:
Poor owd Roddle!

159

VI

In a churchyard corner lone,
Under a nameless mound,
Where the friendless poor are thrown,
Roddle lies sleepin' sound:
And the kind moon shines at night
On the weary wanderer's bed,
And the sun and the rain keep bright
His grassy quilt o'erhead.
Poor owd Roddle!

160

My Gronfaither, Willie.

I

My gronfaither, Willie,
Wur born o'th moorside,
In a cosy owd house
Where he lived till he died;
He wur strong-limbed an' hearty,
An' manly, an' kind;
An' as blithe as a lark, for
He'd nought on his mind.
Derry down.

161

II

His wife wur th' best craiter
That ever wur made;
An' they'd three bonny lasses
As ever broke brade;
An' five strappin' lads—
They looked grand in a row,
For they'rn six feet apiece—
That makes ten yards in o'!
Derry down.

III

My gronfaither's house
Wur a cosy owd shop,
An' as sweet as a posy
Fro' bottom to top;
Parlour, loom-house, an' dairy;
Bedrooms, greight an' smo';
An' a shinin' owd kitchen,—
The best nook of o'!
Derry down.

162

IV

He'd cows in a pastur,
An' sheep o'th moorside;
An' a nice bit o' garden
Wur th' owd fellow's pride;
With his looms an' his cattle,
He'd plenty o' wark
For his lads an' his lasses,
Fro' dayleet to dark.
Derry down.

V

A gray-yedded layrock
O' three-score an' twelve,
He'd weave an' he'd warble,
He'd root an' he'd delve
Fro' daybreak to sunset,
Then creep to his nook,
At the sweet ingle-side,
For a tot an' a smooke.
Derry down.

163

VI

An' fro th' big end o' Pendle
To Robin Hood's Bed;
Fro Skiddaw to Tandle's
Owd grove-tufted yed;
Fro th' Two Lads to Tooter's,
There's never a pot
That's sin as much glee
As my gronfaither's tot.
Derry down.

VII

Fro' Swarthmoor i' Furness,
Where th' dew upo' th' fells
Keeps twinkle to th' tinkle
Of Ulverston bells;
Fro Black Coombe to Blacks'nedge,
No cup mon could fill,
Did moore good an' less harm
Than my gronfaither's gill.
Derry down.

164

VIII

As I journey through life
May this fortin be mine,
To be upreet an' downreet
Fro youth to decline:
An' walk like a mon,
Through whatever betide,
Like my gronfaither, Willie,
That live't o'th moorside.
Derry down.

165

Come to your Porritch.

[_]

Air—“One Bumper at Parting.”

I

Come lads, an' sit down to yor porritch;
I hope it'll help yo to thrive;
For nob'dy con live as they should do
Beawt some'at to keep 'em alive:
We're snug; with a daicent thatch o'er us,
While round us the winter winds blow;
Be thankful for what there's afore us;
There's some that han nothing at o'.

Chorus—

Then, come, an' sit down to yor porritch;
I hope it'll help yo to thrive;
For nob'dy can live as they should do
Beawt some at to keep 'em alive.

166

II

Sometimes I've a pain i' my stomach
That's common to folk that are poor;
But I've mostly a mouthful o' some'at
That suits my complaint to a yure:
Come beef, suet-dumplin', or lobscouse,
Come ale, or cowd wayter, I'll sing;
An' a lump o' good cheese an' a jannock,
It makes me as proud as a king.

Chorus—

Then, come, an' sit down to yor porritch;
I hope it'll help yo to thrive;
For nob'dy can live as they should do
Beawt some'at to keep 'em alive.

III

There's mony poor craiters are dainty,
An' wanten their proven made fine;
But if it be good, an' there's plenty,
I'm never so tickle wi' mine:
It's aitin' that keeps a man waggin',
An' hunger that butters his bread;
An' when a lad snighs at his baggin',
It's time for to send him to bed.

Chorus—

Then, come, an' sit down to yor porritch;
I hope it'll help yo to thrive;
For nob'dy can live as they should do
Beawt some'at to keep e'm alive.

167

IV

Some folk are both greedy an' lither;
They'n guttle, —but wortch noan at o';
An' their life's just a comfortless swither,
Bepowlert an' pown too an' fro;
Then, wortch away, lads, till yo're weary:
It helps to keep everything reet;
Yo'n find the day run very cheery,
An' sleep like a peg-top at neet.

Chorus—

Then, come, an' sit down to yor porritch;
I hope it'll help yo to thrive;
For nob'dy can live as they should do
Beawt some'at to keep 'em alive.

a thick unleavened oaten cake, formerly common in rustic Lancashire.

to slight, to despise.

lazy.

to gourmandize.

a disturbance, a state of tremulous uncertainty.

jolted about, and beaten.

168

Heigh, Jone, Owd Brid!

I

Heigh, Jone, owd brid, bring in some ale;
I'm fain to see tho wick an' weel.
We'n make this cote ring like a bell
Wi' jolly-hearted sound, lads!
We're just come liltin', full o' glee,
Fro' th' moorlan' tops, so wild an' free;
Come, clear this floor, an' let 'em see
Us dance a Cheshire round, lads!

II

There's Jonathan can sing a song
That's four-an'-twenty verses long,
An' twitterin' Ben caps owd an' young
For merry country cracks, mon!

169

There's Thistle Jack; there's limber Joe,—
He'll wrostle aught i'th town an' fo';
Come cut an' long tail, he licks o',
An' lays 'em o' their backs, mon!

III

There's Ned wi'th pipes, an' curly Bill,
An' Tum o' Nell's fro' Wardle Hill,
An' moorlan' Dan fro' the Blue Pots rill,
An' fither-fuuted Dick, mon!
Thou may wander far, an' pick an' choose,
Where rindles run an' heather groos;
Thou'll find no blither cowts than thoose
Fro' here to Windle Nick, mon!

IV

We're brown as hazel-nuts wi'th sun,
For th' harvest's o'er, an' th' hay's weel won;
An' every heart runs o'er wi' fun,
An' every lad's i' prime, mon!
Their e'en are wick wi' merry leet;
We'n trip it round wi' nimble feet;
With reet good will we'n blithely greet
This bonny summer time, mon!

170

V

Then bring a foamin' tankard in,
An' weet yo'r whistles an' begin;
This roof shall ring with jovial din,—
It's haliday to-day, lads!
God bless owd England's hearts of oak,
Her toilin' swarms, an' sturdy folk;
May they never yield to tyrant's yoke,
I will both sing an' pray, lads!

171

Eh, Dear, what a Bother!

I

Eh, dear, what a bother;
My faither an' mother
Are makin' me tired o' my life!
Jem wants me to marry;
They say'n we mun tarry
A while, till I'm fit for a wife.

II

My lad's brave an' bonny;
He's mine, if I've ony;
He's loved me an' courted me long.
He're seventeen last Monday;
I'm sixteen o' Sunday;
An' yet they both think us too young.

172

III

Said my faither, when Jamie
Axed if he might ha' me,
“My lad, it's too soon to get wed!
Thou's no yure o' thi chin, mon;
Thi wages are thin, an'
Thou's never a roof for thi yed.

IV

“Thou's no housin' nor beddin';
Thou's nought saved for weddin'—
I don't think thou's price of a sark!
If thou waits till hoo's twenty,
It's soon enough, plenty;
So go thi ways back to thi wark!”

V

But oh, as time passes,
These dainty young lasses
May wile my lad's fancy fro' me;
For there's witchery in him,
An' if they should win him,
I think i' my heart I should dee!

173

VI

Oh, Jamie, my darlin';
My darlin', my darlin';
How happy thy kind wife I'd be!
To wander together,
Through life's hardest weather,
How gladly I'd struggle for thee!

174

Maut-Worm.

I

Last neet I went swaggerin' down
To Robin o' Pinder's brew;
This mornin' I reel't through th' town,
As fuddle't as David's sow:
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
A maisterful throttle's a foo!

II

I con noather ston, lie, nor sit;
I dither like mad i' my shoon;
My yed feels as if it would split,
My gullet's as dry as a oon:
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
This wark'll be th' end on me soon!

175

III

But fill up; an' let it run o'er;
For, whether I live or I dee,
I mun just have another tot moore,
O' this bubblin' barley-bree!
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
Barm-broth's bin the ruin o' me!

IV

I once had a wife o' my own,
An' three bonny lads an' o';
But they're gone; an' I'm left alone,
Wanderin' too an' fro;
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
An' I wish I wur lyin' low.

V

I'm tatter't fro' th' hat to th' clogs;
My pockets are drain't for swill;
I'm goin' yed-long to th' dogs;
But, I'll just have another gill;
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
If a warkhouse coffin I fill!

176

VI

An' when this wild fire grows cool,
An' my racklesome journey's past;
Happed up with a sexton's shool;
In a pauper nook laid fast;
Th' owd delver may say.
As he walks away,
“Poor Bill; he's at rest at last!”

177

God Bless Thee, Nan!

I

God bless thee, Nan, it does one good
To see that face o' thine!
It sends a tingle through my blood,
And warms this heart o' mine!
I cannot tell how fain I feel;
It makes me fit to cry:
I could like to clip an' kiss tho weel,
For th' sake o' days gone by!

II

“What strange things come into one's yed!
I fancy, day by day,
My bits o' friends are oather deeod
Or driftin' out o'th way;
But bless us, I've no room to talk,
For here and there I see
A deal o' very decent folk
That's far worse off than me.”

178

III

“I've th' childer round about my knees;
Our Jem an' me's had four;
An' there's no tellin', lass, thou sees,
There'll happen be some more:
But let 'em come—like twitterin' brids,—
God bless 'em, let 'em come!
There's nought i'th world like little kids
For makin' folk at whoam!”

IV

“Eh, Nanny, lass, I wish thou'd yoke!
Mon, time keeps creepin' on;
An' it's useless gettin' wed to folk
That's owd, an' cowd, an' done.
Get sattle't; an' thou'd find it, Ann,
Far nicer pooin through,
If thou'd a daicent husban', an'
A little choilt or two.”

V

“Lord bless us, how thou does goo on;
I know thou's let on well;
But thou needn't fancy every one
As lucky as thisel';
I see no chance for me to yoke;
My single life's no crime;
I'm willin'; but they don't wed folk
An odd un at a time!”

179

VI

“Yor Jem an' thee's like weel-pair't shoon,
Easy to don an' doff;
An' where there's tone, yo'n very soon
Find tother noan far off:
But I'm a poor lone soul, an' odd,
An limpin' th' wide world through,
Wi' one foot bare, an' one foot shod,
Lookin' for th' marrow shoe!”

VII

“Come, howd thi din lass, for I've yerd
Thou'rt courting very strong;
An' I nobbut want to say one word,—
Don't put it off too long!
But, bless us, thou keeps stonnin' theer;
An' thou looks rare an' weel!
Come, doff thi things, an' tak a cheer,
An' do look like thisel'!”

VIII

“Mary, I haven't time to-day;
I mun be gooin' fur;
I've nobbut peeped in upo' th' way,
A-seein' how yo wur:
I'll come when I can stop a bit;
It'll nobbut be a walk;
An' I'll bring a bit o' stuff to knit;
Then we can wortch an' talk.”

180

IX

“That's reet, owd lass! An' mind thou does;
Now th' weather's gettin' fine;
Slip o'er; an' come a-seein' us,—
An' bring yon chap o' thine;
An' don't thee let this May-time pass
Afore thou'rt here again:
An', now, God bless thee, Nanny, lass,
For ever more, Amen!”

181

Our Jem an' Me.

I

What, Matty, lass, it's never thee!
Come in, an' keawer tho down;
Thou'rt just i' time to get thi tay;
Our Jamie's off i'th town.
Eh, dear, I'm fain to see tho here;
I wanted tho to come;
So, doff thi things, an' tak this cheer,
An' make thisel' a-whoam.

II

Eh, if our Jamie had bin in,
He would ha' bin some fain;
He'd nearly jump out of his skin
To see thee here again!

182

An' th' childer too, they would ha' crowed,—
They're gradely fond o' thee;
But I al'ays think thou'rt like one's own,—
An' Jamie's same as me.

III

How am I? Why, I'm th' best side out,
An' th' childer are o' reet:
It would make thee stare at meal-times
What they putten out o' seet.
Eh, lass, they are a hungry lot;
An' they're hearty, an' they're rough:
Thank God, we're never short o' meight,
So I let 'em have enough.

IV

These childer! Bless thi life, owd lass—
Our Jem an' me's had six,—
They keepen one alive, bi th' mass,
Wi' their bits o' mankin tricks.
There's three at schoo', an' two i'th town;
An this is little Jem;
He's just th' spit of our Jamie,—
An' he's christent after him.

183

V

Eh, dear, those two blue e'en of his,
Like bits o' April sky!
I sometimes look into his face
Till it nearly makes me cry.
Come here, thou little curly lout,—
Thou rosy, rompin' limb!
His faither were a roughish cowt,—
An' he'll be th' same as him.

VI

It's not to tell what folk con ston',—
But we're a hardish breed;
Our physic's made i'th porritch-pon—
It's o' we ever need.
An' how it comes I connot tell—
Thou'll think it quare I know,—
But if ever I'm not weel mysel'
Our Jamie's ill an' o'.

VII

Now then, poo up, an' buckle to,
An' try these bits o' chops;
It puzzles me how folk can do
To live o' nought but slops.

184

It's reet enough to weet one's lips,
But to tell yo truth, owd dame,
I'm raither fond o' butchers' chips,—
An' Jamie's just the same.

VIII

Eh dear o' me; I'm fain I'm wick!
An' it's o' long o' Jem;
He sometimes says, “Owd lass, we're thick!”
For he sees I'm fond of him.
An' yet, thou knows, life's flittin' by;
But when I come to dee,
It doesn't matter where I lie,
Our Jamie'll lie wi' me!

185

It's Hard to Tell which Gate to Goo.

I

It's hard to tell which gate to goo
I' sich a world as this;
An' do the best that one can do,
It sometimes runs amiss.
I stocked some trouble for mysel'
While I wur down at th' fair,
For now I know what 'tis full well
To love an' to despair.

Chorus—

It's heaven's delight to be in love,
When those we love are kind;
But oh, how hard it is to move
Hearts of another mind!

186

II

Ill fortin took me down that way,
When Lizzie met my e'e;
It wur a bonny summer's day,
But a weary day for me.
Hoo knows I'm racked with hopeless care,
An' yet, wi dainty wile,
For me hoo finds it hard to spare
A little wintry smile.

Chorus—

It's heaven's delight to be in love.
When those we love are kind!

III

I'm dwindlin' down like runnin' sond;
There's nought left i' my skin;
I could read a ballit through my hond,
My limbs are groon so thin.
It's a weary life for one to dree;
I'm shot,—dee when I will;
An' when deeoth comes a-seekin' me,
He'll not find much to kill.

Chorus—

It's heaven's delight to be in love.
When those we love are kind!

187

IV

Fro mornin' dawn to th' edge o' dark
My wits are o' astray;
I am not worth, for gradely wark,
Aboon a groat a day.
Yo may burn my clooas in a rook,—
I's never want 'em moore;
An' I'll creep into a quiet nook,
An' maunder till its o'er.

Chorus—

It's heaven's delight to be in love.
When those we love are kind!

V

Oh, Lizzie, darlin', be my wife;
Thou'rt all the world to me;
An' if thou wilt not save my life,
I'll lap it up and dee!
An' when deeoth stills this achin' breast,
Oh, spare one tender sigh
For the poor lad that's laid at rest,—
An' make a shift to cry.

Chorus—

It's heaven's delight to be in love,
When those we love are kind;
But oh, how hard it is to move
Hearts of another mind!

188

Going to the Fair.

I

Eh, Nan, Lord bless an' save us o;
Whatever's up to-day?
Arto boun a-dancin in a show,
Or arto th' Queen o' May?
Thou looks a bonny pictur, wench—
I don't know how thou feels,—
Wi' thi ribbins an' thi top-knots,
An' thi fithers down to th' heels!

II

Eh, Sarah, mon, I'm welly done!
Six week an' never out
Fro break o' day till set o' sun;
It's knocked me up, I doubt!
Fro wark to bed, fro bed to wark;
I've had aboon mi share;
But I've broken out at last, thou sees;
An' now I'm oft to th' fair.

189

III

Thou never says! Well, I declare!
It brings back to mi mind
What happened th' last time I wur theer;
An' I feel hauve inclined,—
If I can find a cheer that's fit,
An' if thou'll shut that dur,
An' come an' keawer tho down a bit,—
To tell tho how it wur.

IV

Thou recollects our weddin'-day?
Eh, dear, I wur a swell!
I'm sure thou's not forgotten that,
For thou wur theer thisel'.
Eh, what a day we had that day!
How they did dance and sing!
An' I kept howdin' out my hond,
To let folk see mi ring.

V

Well, we'd just bin a fortnit wed,
When Jamie comes to me—
I could see he'd some'at in his yed
Bi th' twinkle of his e'e,—
An' he chuckt me under th' chin an' said,
Come, lay thi knittin' down;
Yon's Knott Mill Fair agate like mad,
Let's have a look at th' town!

190

VI

Eh, Jem, I said, thou knows reet weel
I've lots o' things to do;
But if thou wants to go to th' town,
I guess I'm like to goo.
So I dropt mi wark, an' off we went,
Donned up i' Sunday trim:
Our Jem seemed tickle't up wi' th' change,—
An' I're as fain as him.

VII

An' when we coom to th' fairin' ground,
An' geet i'th thick o'th throng,
For stalls, an' shows, an' haliday folk,
We could hardly thrutch along;
An' th' drums an' shouts' an' merry din,—
Thou never yerd the like!
An' there nob'dy laughed much moore than me,
It fairly made me skrike!

VIII

But a dirty pouse coom up to Jem,
An' whispert in his ear;
An' he said, “I've made my market, lass
Thou'm talk to th' mistress here!”
That nettle't me aboon a bit;
An', as hoo're hutchin' nar,
I grope my fist, an' said, “He's mine,
An' touch him if thou dar!”

191

IX

Our Jem wur trouble't when he seed
I took it so amiss;
So he said, “Here, Sally, let's go whoam;
We'n had enough o' this!”
An' fro that day, now ten year gone,
We'n poo'd through thick an' thin;
But that wur th' last o' Knott Mill Fair;
For I've never bin there sin'.

193

APPENDIX.

195

Jack Swaddle.

I

Jack Swaddle wur a lurcher,
Though he wur young an' stark;
For he're fond o' meight an' drink,
But never liked his wark;
He'd guttle o' before him,
An' when he'd taen his fill,
He'd poo his blankets o'er him,
To make folk think he're ill.

II

His wife felt mischief brewin'
Afore they'd long bin wed;
Hoo'd to slave to keep him gooin',
While he lay snug i' bed;
An, at what th' owd lad wur aimin'
Hoo couldn't justly tell,
For, hoo sometimes thought he're schamin
When he reckon't to be ill.

196

III

“What's th' matter with our Jack, yon?
I wonder how he feels;
Though he's lyin' on his back, yon,
He's ready for his meals.
I's be like to have a doctor;
He's gettin' past my skill;
An' there's nob'dy but a doctor
Can find out where he's ill.”

IV

When th' doctor coom to sound him,—
His tongue, his pulse, an' o',
He're puzzled, for he found him
O reet, fro top to toe.
“Thou eats weel; an' thou sleeps weel;
An' thi een are clear an' breet;
But, I think I know what ails tho;
An' I'll try to put tho reet.”

V

“Matty; yo'n ha' some trouble
Wi' yon ailment o' yor John's;
It'll tak a deal o' curin',
For its sattle't in his bwons;
But, trate him as I've towd yo;
Though he'll think his physic strange;
If he taks it, I'll uphowd yo,
It'll bring some mak o' change.”

197

VI

“John; th' doctor say thy illness
Is of a serious natur;
Thou'rt to lie i' bed a fortnit,
An' live o' toast an' wayter;
Thou'rt to have no other meat nor drink,
But tak some pills he'll send tho;
If it doesn't put tho reet, he thinks
That it may happen end tho.”

VII

“The dule may tak sich doctors!
I'll try to cure mysel'.
He may gi' thee th' toast an' wayter,
An' tak his pills his sel'!
Here; reitch my clooas; I'll get up!
It comes into my yed,
That I'd rayther dee upo' my feet
Than clem to deeoth i' bed!”

These verses were accidentally omitted in the previous part of the book.

198

Fylde Fisherman's Song.

[_]

To an old country tune.

I

Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
“I could like to goo a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra soon;
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!”

199

II

Then up in the mornin' Dick did rise;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Then up in the mornin' Dick did rise;
An' to Tom's door like leetnin' flies;
To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

III

So up Tom jumped, an' down stairs dart,
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
So up Tom jumped, an' down stairs dart,
To goo a-gettin' dew-worms, afore they start;
Wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

IV

Then they hunted, an' they rooted, an' they seeched about;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Then they hunted, an' they rooted, an' they seeched about;
“Bi th' mass,” said little Tom, “but there's noan so mony out!”
To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

200

V

Then off they went, wi' their bob-rods i' hond;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Then off they went, wi' their bob-rods i' hond,
Like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond;
To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido.

VI

An' when they geet to Kellamoor, that little country place;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
An' when they geet to Kellamoor, that little country place,
Th' childer wur so freetent that they durstn't shew their face,
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

VII

An' when they coom to Brynin', folk thought it wur a mob;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
An' when they coom to Brynin', folk thought it wur a mob,
Till little Tommy towd 'em that they wur but baan to bob;
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

201

VIII

But, when they geet to Wharton, they wur theer afore the tide;
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
But, when they geet to Wharton, they wur theer afore the tide,
So they jumped into a boat, an' away they both did ride,
Wi' their bob-rods, an' snig-bags, an' worm-cans an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

This quaint country fishing song was first printed in my volume of Lancashire Sketches. Before that time it seems to have been almost unknown out of the Fylde country, to which it relates. I wrote it down from the recitation of old Thomas Smith, better known as “Owd England,” who lived in the little seaside village of Norbreck, near Bispham, in the Fylde, and was “wreckmaster” and fisherman on that part of the Lancashire coast. There is not much in the words except a quiet tone of natural simplicity, with, here and there, a graphic touch, which breathes the spirit of the secluded district from which the song originated. The song was written early in the present century, by William Garlick, a poor man, and a weaver of “pow davy,” a kind of sail-cloth. The tune is a quaint and simple air, which I never heard before.

202

On Reading Edwin Waugh's Lancashire Poems.

I

Simple tales of simple lovers,
Noble words 'bout nobler hearts,
Told with such melodious sweetness
That their echoes ne'er depart.

II

Sings he not of mighty heroes
Fallen in unholy strife,
But of men whose high ambition
Is to lead an honest life.

III

Sons of toil and honest labour,
Men of iron nerve and will,
But with hearts of tenderest feeling
For a suffering brother's ill.

IV

Then he tells us of a maiden
Decked to meet her rustic swain;
Then describes a village courtship
Down a moss-grown country lane,

203

V

Then again a simple labourer,
Simple in his wants and fare,
But beneath that rough, hard surface
Lies a gem of beauty rare.

VI

Then there is the comely matron,
Listening for her husband's tread:
Then he shows how kings and nobles
Like the beggar are—when dead.

VII

All he tells with such rare beauty,
But in such a homely style,
That we've hardly finished weeping
Ere he moves us to a smile.

VIII

May his words, so quaint and tender—
May his words so rich and rare,
In the autumn of his lifetime
Many golden harvests bear.

C. EDITH LORT BEDELLS

204

To Edwin Waugh,

ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JANUARY 29TH, 1887.

I

Tis over thirty years, friend Waugh,
Since thou and I first met:
A manly face, a twinkling eye,
A voice to music set.

II

Were thine to please, to charm, to win,
All round the social board,
Where kindly sympathetic ears
Hung on each tuneful word.

205

III

Since then I've roamed the moorland wild,
With poesy and thee;
And pressed the fragrant heather bell
With footstep light and free.

IV

And I have known thee since, when care
And dire affliction traced
The lines that tell of weary days
No healing hath effaced.

V

When silver crept amongst thy hair,
Now changed to wintry rime;
And stooped thy form beneath the load
Of unrelenting Time.

VI

Thy lyre hath sounded 'mid the strife
Of worldly thoughts and ways;
Thy song hath cheered the hapless wight
With dreams of happier days.

VII

Soon thou must lay thy harp aside,
Hushed for the passing hour;
But memory may wake its tones
With echoes of its power.

206

VIII

The sun of thy poetic day
For ever may have set;
But rosy are the twilight tints
That linger round thee yet.

IX

Ere these dissolve in darksome night,
And leave thy soul forlorn,
May'st thou behold the breaking light
Of an eternal morn.

BEN BRIERLEY.

These lines were read at the Banquet given at the Queen's Hotel, Manchester, in celebration of Mr. Waugh's Seventieth Birthday.

207

To Edwin Waugh.

ON A COPY OF HIS POEMS, PRESENTED TO THE WRITER.

I

Thanks, Edwin Waugh,
Before I saw
Thy racy dialect verses,
Such tongue, to me,
Appeared to be
Fit garb for oaths and curses!

II

But here thou's found
Both form and sound
For songs that move the people,
And point the way
To heavenly day
True as a Minster—steeple.

208

III

Yes, “Lancashire”
A poet's fire
Ill fitted seems to cherish;
Yet, by such speech,
Thy songs shall teach
With force that cannot perish.

IV

To us they come
Fragrant of home—
Where chance true friends ne'er severs:
True wisdom's streams
And wit's bright gleams
Here flash like northern rivers.

V

Go, sow the seeds
Of manly deeds,
Thy worth—true souls shall know it;
Brace every heart
To bear its part,
Thou true-born people's poet!

VI

“Come whoam's” a gem
Of lasting fame,
Most apt to win the rover
Back to his nest
From follies' quest
The working wide world over.

209

VII

Home! pole-star bright
In time's dark night,
Earth's wilderness oasis;
A lighthouse tower
Lit by the power
Of radiant happy faces!

VIII

Home! sacred word,
Thy joys afford
Earth's purest consolation—
Where souls combine,
The hearth's a shrine—
A heavenward preparation.

IX

Home! that blest morn
Beyond time's bourn,
Christ's flock in dust now sleeping,
Shall rise to thee,
Pure, ransomed, free,
To end earth's night of weeping.

X

Then “buckle to”
And bravely hew
Thy way to manhood's glory.
Strength, freedom, rest,
A mansion blest
Shall crown life's battle story.

SAMUEL BARBER.