OF THE 
 
 U N I VERS ITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 Tom Turner Collection 
 
 821 
 
 W35€ 
 
— 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 J ' 
 
 1 
 
LANCASHIRE SONGS 
 
LANCASHIRE SONGS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWIN WAUGH. 
 
 LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO. 
 MANCHESTER : JOHN HEYWOOD. 
 
Printed by John Heywood, Deansgate , Manchester. 
 
e* \ 
 
 W 3 SjL 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Come IVhoam to thi Childer an' me . 
 
 i 
 
 What ails thee , my Son Robin ? 
 
 5 
 
 God Bless these Poor Folk ! 
 
 8 
 
 Come , Mary , Link thi Arm ? mine . 
 
 12 
 
 Chirrup 
 
 17 
 
 The Buie's V this Bonnet o' mine 
 
 21 
 
 Tickle Times ...... 
 
 24 
 
 Jamie's Frolic 
 
 28 
 
 Owd Pinder ...... 
 
 34 
 
 Come , Jamie, let's undo thi Shoon . 
 
 • ' 37 
 
 Th ' Goblin Parson . . . .... 
 
 40 
 
 While takin ' a Wifi o' my Pipe 
 
 45 
 
 God bless thi Silver Yure / 
 
 . 48 
 
 Mar fits cornin' 
 
 53 
 
 Eawr Folk 
 
 • 58 
 
 Th' Sweetheart Gate .... 
 
 63 
 
 Gentle Jom ...... 
 
 66 
 
 Neet-Fo' . . . . 
 
 70 
 
 Aw've worn my bits o' Shoon away . 
 
 75 
 
 Yesterneet ...... 
 
 . 78 
 
 
w 
 
COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER 
 AN’ ME. 
 
 i. 
 
 ^WYE just mended th’ fire wi’ % a cob ; 
 
 Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon 
 There’s some nice bacon collops o’ th’ hob, 
 
 An’ a quart o’ ale-posset i’ th’ oon ; 
 
 Aw’ve brought thi top cwot, does ta know, 
 
 For tk’ rain’s cornin’ deawn very dree ; 
 
 An’ th’ hnr’stone’s as white as new snow ; 
 
 Come whoam to thi childer an’ me. 
 
 B 
 
2 
 
 Come Whoam to 
 
 n. 
 
 When aw put little Sally to bed, 
 
 Hoo cried, ’cose her feyther weren’t theer, 
 
 So aw kiss’d th’ little thing, an’ aw said 
 Thae’d bring her a ribbin fro’ th’ fair ; 
 
 An’ aw gav her her doll, an’ some rags, 
 
 An’ a nice little white cotton bo’ ; 
 
 An’ aw kiss’d her again -, but hoo said 
 At hoo wanted to kiss thee an’ o. 
 
 hi. 
 
 An’ Dick, too, awd sich wark wi’ him, 
 
 Afore aw could get him up stairs ; 
 
 Thae towd him thae’d bring him a drum, 
 
 He said, when here sayin’ his prayers ; 
 
 Then he looked i’ my face, an’ he said, 
 
 “ Has th’ boggarts taen houd o’ my dad ?” 
 
 An’ he cried whol his een were quite red ; — 
 He likes thee some weel, does yon lad ! 
 
Thi Childer an ' Me . 
 
 3 
 
 IV. 
 
 At th’ lung-length aw geet him laid still ; 
 
 An' aw hearken’t folks’ feet at went by ; 
 So aw iron’t o’ my clooas reet weel, 
 
 An’ aw hanged em o’ th’ maiden to dry ; 
 When aw’d mended thi stocking an’ shirts, 
 Aw sit deawn to knit i’ my cheer, 
 
 An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt — 
 
 Mon, aw’m one-ly when theaw artn’t theer. 
 
 v. 
 
 4 4 Aw’ve a drum and a trumpet for Dick ; 
 
 Aw’ve a yard o’ blue ribbin for Sal * 
 Aw’ve a book full o’ babs ; an a stick. 
 
 An’ some bacco an’ pipes for mysel ; 
 Aw’ve brought thee some coffee an’ tay — 
 Iv thae’ll feel i my pocket, thae’ll see ; 
 An’ aw’ve bought tho a new cap to-day, — 
 But aw olez bring summat for thee ! 
 
4 
 
 it 
 
 Come Whoam to tRi Childer an Me. 
 
 4 4 God bless tho, my lass ; aw’ll go whoam, 
 An’ awll kiss thee an’ th’ childer o 5 reawnd ; 
 Thae knows, at wheerever aw roam, 
 
 Aw’m fain to get back to th’ owd greawnd ; 
 Aw can do wi’ a crack o’er a glass ; 
 
 Aw can do wi’ a bit ov a spree ; 
 
 But aw’ve no gradely comfort, my lass, 
 
 Except wi’ yon childer and thee . 15 
 
WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN ? 
 
 r. 
 
 '^^HAT ails thee, my son Robin ? 
 
 My heart is sore for thee ; 
 Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner, 
 
 An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e ; 
 
 Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome, 
 
 An’ looks so pale at morn ; 
 
 God bless tho, lad, aw’m soory 
 To see tho so forlorn. 
 
6 
 
 What ails Thee , 
 
 + ii 
 
 Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t, — 
 
 Aw used to know it weel, — 
 
 Neaw, arto fairy-strucken *, 
 
 Or, arto gradely ill ? 
 
 Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witches 
 I’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet ? 
 
 Come tell mo, Robin, tell mo, 
 
 For summat isna reet ! 
 
 m. 
 
 “ Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo ; 
 
 Aw am not like mysel’ ; 
 
 But, Yisna lung o’th’ fceor'in’ 
 
 That han to do wi’th’ deil ; 
 
 There’s nought at thus could daunt mo, 
 I’th cloof, by neet nor day ; — 
 
 It’s yon blue een o’ Mary’s ; — 
 
 They taen my life away. 
 
My Son Robin ? 
 
 iv. ^ 
 
 <c Aw deawt aw ve done wi comfort 
 To th’ day that aw mun dee, 
 For th* place hoo sets her fuut on, 
 It’s fairy greawnd to me ; 
 
 But, oh, it’s, useless speighkin’, 
 
 t 
 
 Aw connut ston her pride • 
 
 An’ when a true heart’s breighkin’ 
 It’s very hard to bide ! ” 
 
 v. 
 
 Neaw, God be wi’ tho, Robin ; 
 
 Just let her have her way ; 
 Hoo’ll never meet thy marrow, 
 For mony a summer day ; 
 Aw’re just same wi’ thi feyther, 
 When first he spoke to me : 
 So, go thi ways, an’ whistle ; 
 An’ th’ lass’ll come to thee ! 
 
GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK ! 
 
 i. 
 
 ^^OD bless these poor folk that are strivin’ 
 By ttieans that are honest an true, 
 
 For somethin’ to keep ’em alive in 
 
 This world ’at we’re scramblin’ through ; 
 As th’ life ov a mon’s full o’ feightin’ 
 
 A poor soul that wants to feight fair, 
 Should never be grudged ov his heytin’. 
 
 For th’ hardest o’th’ battle’s his share. 
 Chorus.— As th’ life ov a mon 
 
God Bless these Poor Folk ! 
 
 9 
 
 ii. 
 
 This world’s kin to trouble ; i’th best on’t, 
 There’s mony sad changes come reawnd ; 
 
 We wandern abeawt to find rest on’t, 
 
 An th’ worm yammers for us i’th greawnd ; 
 
 May he that’ll wortch while he’s able, 
 
 Be never long hungry nor dry •, 
 
 An’ th’ childer ’at sit at his table, — 
 
 God bless ’em wi’ plenty, say I. 
 
 Chorus . — As th’ life ov a mon. 
 m. 
 
 An’ he that can feel it a pleasur’ - 
 To leeten misfortin an’ pain, — 
 
 May his pantry be olez full measur’, 
 
 To cut at, and come to again ; 
 
 May God bless his cup and his cupbort, 
 
 A theawsan for one that he gives ; 
 
 An’ his heart be a bumper o’ comfort, 
 
 To th’ very last minute he lives ! 
 
 Chorus . — As th’ life ov a mon. 
 
10 
 
 God Bless these Poor Folk ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 An’ he that scorns ale to his victual, 
 
 Is welcome to let it alone *, 
 
 There’s some can be wise with a little, 
 An’ some that are foolish wi’ noan ; 
 
 An’ some are so quare i’ their natur, 
 
 That nought wi’ their stomachs agree ; 
 
 But, he that would liefer drink wayter, 
 Shall never be stinted by me. 
 
 Chorus . — As th’ life ov a mon. 
 
 v. 
 
 One likes to see hearty folk wortchin, 
 An’ weary folk having a rest •, 
 
 One likes to yer poor women singin’ 
 
 To th’ little things laid o’ their breast ; 
 
 Good cooks are my favourite doctors ; 
 Good livers my parsons shall be ; 
 
 An’ ony poor craytur at’s clemmin, 
 
 May come have a meawthful wi’ me. 
 
 Chorus . — As th’ life ov a mon. 
 
God Bless these Poor Folk ! 
 
 1 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 Owd Time, — he’s a troublesome codger, — 
 Keeps nudgin’ us on to decay, 
 
 An’ whispers, “ Yo’re nobbut a lodger ; 
 
 Get ready for goin’ away.” 
 
 Then let’s ha no skulkin’ nor sniv’lin’, 
 Whatever misfortin’s befo^ 
 
 God bless him that fends for his livin’, 
 
 An’ houds up his yed through it o’ ! 
 Chorus . — As th’ life ov a mon. 
 
COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM V MINE. 
 
 L 
 
 ^^JOME, Mary, link thi arm i 7 mine, 
 
 An’ lilt away wi’ me ; 
 
 An’ dry that little drop o’ brine, 
 
 Fro’ th’ corner o’ thi ee ; 
 
 Th 7 mornin’ dew i’th* heather-bell’s 
 A bonny gem o’ weet *, 
 
 That tear a different story tells, — 
 
 It pains my heart to see’t. 
 
 Chorus— So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. 
 
Come , Mary , thi Arm i mine. 13 
 
 11. 
 
 No lordly ho’ o’th country-side's 
 So pleasant to my view, 
 
 As th ? little cottage where abides 
 My bonny lass an’ true ; 
 
 But, there’s a nook close by yon spring, 
 
 An 9 iv thea’ll share’t wi’ me ; 
 
 Aw’ll buy tho th’ prattist gowden ring 
 That ever theaw did see ! 
 
 Chorus . — So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine, 
 m. 
 
 My feyther’s gan mo forty peawnd, 
 
 P silver an’ f gowd ; 
 
 An 1 a bonny bit o’ garden greawnd, 
 
 O’th* momin’ side o’th fowd ; 
 
 An’ a honsome Bible, clen an 9 new, 
 
 To read for days to come % — 
 
 There’s leaves for writin names in, too, 
 
 Like th’ owd un at’s awhoam. 
 
 Chorus . — So, Mary, link thi arm i* mine. 
 
14 
 
 Come, Mary, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Eawr Jenny’s bin a-buyin’ in, 
 
 An’ every day hoo brings 
 
 Knives an’ forks, an’ pots ; or irons 
 For smoothin’ caps an’ things ; 
 
 My gronny’s sent a chist o’ drawers, 
 
 Sunday clooas to keep ; 
 
 An’ litde Fanny’s bought a glass, 
 
 Where thee an’ me can peep. 
 
 Chorus— ~ So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. 
 
 v. 
 
 Eawr Turn has sent a bacon-flitch ; 
 
 Eawr Jem a load o’ coals ; 
 
 Eawr Charlie’s bought some pickters, an’ 
 
 He’s hanged ’em upo’ th’ woles •, 
 
 Owd Posy’s white-weshed th’ cottage through •, 
 Eawr Matty’s made it sweet ; 
 
 An Jack’s gan me his Jarman flute, 
 
 To play by th’ fire at neet ! 
 
 Chorus. — So, Mary, link thy arm i’ mine. 
 
Link thi Ann i' mine. 
 
 IS 
 
 VI. 
 
 There’s cups and saucers ; porritch-pons, 
 
 An’ tables, greyt an’ smo’ ; 
 
 There’s brushes, mugs, an’ ladin-cans ; 
 
 An eight days clock an’ o’ ; 
 
 There’s a cheer for thee, an’ one for me, 
 
 An’ one i’ every nook ; 
 
 Thi mother’s has a cushion on’t — 
 
 It’s th’ nicest cheer i’th rook. 
 
 Chorus . — So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine 
 
 VII. 
 
 My mother’s gan me th’ four-post bed, 
 
 Wi’ curtains to’t an’ o’ ; 
 
 An’ pillows, sheets, an’ bowsters, too, 
 
 As white as driven snow ; 
 
 It isn’t stuffed wi’ fither-deawn ; 
 
 But th’ flocks are clen an’ new ; 
 
 Hoo says there’s daycent folk i’th teawn 
 That’s made a warse un do. 
 
 Chorus .- — So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. 
 
1 6 Come , Mary , Link thi Arm i 1 mine. 
 
 yiiL 
 
 Aw peeped into my cot last neet ; 
 
 It made me hutchin’ fain ; 
 
 A bonny fire were winkin’ breet 
 I* every window-pane ; 
 
 Aw marlocked upo’ th' white hearth-stone, 
 
 An’ drummed o'th’ kettle lid ; 
 
 An’ sung, “ My neest is snug an’ sweet ; 
 
 Aw’ll go and fotch my brid!” 
 
 Chorus . — So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. 
 

 CHIRRUP. 
 
 i. 
 
 'Y'UNG Chirrup wur a mettled cowt; 
 
 His heart an’ limbs wur true ; 
 
 At foot race, or at wrostlin’-beawt, 
 
 Or aught he buckled to ; 
 
 At wark' or play, reet gallantly 
 He laid into his game : 
 
 An' here very fond o' singin’-brids — 
 That’s heaw he geet his name, 
 c 
 
i 8 
 
 Chirrup. 
 
 ii. 
 
 He’ re straight as ony pickin’-rod, 
 
 An limber as a snig : 
 
 He’ re th’ heartist cock o’ th’ village clod, 
 At every country rig : 
 
 His shinin’ een wur clear an’ blue ; 
 
 His face wur frank an’ bowd ; 
 
 An’ th’ yure abeawt his monly broo 
 Wur crispt i’ curls o’ gowd. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Yung Chirrup donned his clinker’t shoon, 
 An’ startin’ off to th’ fair, 
 
 He swore by th’ leet o’ th’ harvest moon, 
 He’d have a marlock theer : 
 
 He poo’d a sprig fro th’ hawthorn-tree, 
 That blossomed by the way ; — 
 
 “ Iv ony mon says wrang to me, 
 
 Aw’ll tan his hide to-day !” 
 
Chirr tip. 
 
 19 
 
 IV. 
 
 Full sorely mony a lass would sigh, 
 That chanced to wander near. 
 
 An’ peep into his een to spy 
 Iv aught like love wur theer : 
 
 So fresh an’ free he stept o’th’ green ; 
 
 An’ trollin’ eawt a sung, 
 
 Wi’ leetsome heart, an’ twinklin’ een, 
 Went chirrupin’ alung. 
 
 v. 
 
 Yung Chirrup woo’d a village maid, — 
 An’ hoo wur th’ flower ov o’, — 
 Wi’ kisses kind, i’th’ woodlan’ shade, 
 An’ whispers soft an’ low ; 
 
 I’ Matty’s ear twur th’ sweetest chime 
 That ever mortal sung ; 
 
 An’ Matty’s heart beat pleasant time 
 To th’ music ov his tung. 
 
20 
 
 Chirrup . 
 
 VL. 
 
 Oh, th’ kindest mates, this world within, 
 
 Mun sometimes meet wi’ pain ; 
 
 But, iv this pair could life begin, 
 
 They’d buckle to again ; 
 
 For, though here hearty, blunt, an’ tough, 
 
 An’ Matty sweet and mild, 
 
 For three-score year, through smooth an’ rough, 
 Hoo led him like a child. 
 
THE DULE’S I’ THIS BONNET O’ MINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 dule’s i’ this bonnet o’ mine ; 
 
 My ribbins’ll never be reet ; 
 
 Here, Mally, aw’m like to be fine, 
 
 For Jamie’ll be cornin’ to-neet ; 
 
 He met me i’th’ lone tother day, — 
 
 Aw’re gooin’ for wayter to th’ well, — 
 
 An he begged that aw’d wed him i’ May ; — 
 Bi’th’ mass, iv hell let me, aw will ! 
 
22 The Dale's i this Bonnet o' mine . 
 
 When he took my two honds into his, 
 
 Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; 
 An’ aw durstn’t look up in his face, 
 
 Becose on him seem’ my e’en ; 
 
 My cheek went as red as a rose ; 
 
 There’s never a mortal can tell 
 Heaw happy aw felt \ for, thea knows, 
 
 One couldn’t ha’ axed him theirsel’. 
 
 iii. 
 
 But th’ tale wur at th’ end o’ my tung, — 
 
 To let it eawt wouldn’t be reet, — 
 
 For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; 
 
 So aw towd him aw’d tell him to-neet ; 
 But, Mally, thae knows very weel, — 
 
 Though it isn’t a thing one should own, — 
 If aw’d th’ pikein’ o’th’ world to mysel’, 
 Aw’d oather ha’ Jamie or noan. 
 
The Dale's i this Bonnet o' mine. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Neaw, Mally, aw’ve towd tho my mind ; 
 
 What wouldto do iv ’twur thee ? 
 
 “ Aw’d tak him just while he’ re inclined, 
 
 An’ a farrantly bargain he’ll be ; 
 
 For Jamie’s as greadly a lad 
 
 As ever stept eawt into th’ sun *, — 
 
 Go, jump at thy chance, an’ get wed, 
 
 An’ may th’ best o’th’ job when it’s done ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Eh, dear, but it’s time to be gwon ; 
 
 Aw shouldn’t like Jamie to wait ; 
 
 Aw connut for shame be too soon, 
 
 An’ aw wouldn’t for th’ world be too late 
 Aw’m o’ ov a tremble to th’ heel, — 
 
 Dost think at my bonnet’ll do ? — 
 
 “ Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; — 
 
 He wants noan o’th bonnet, thae foo!” 
 
TICKLE TIMES. 
 
 i. 
 
 JT JERE’S Robin he’s terrible gloomy ; 
 
 An’ Jamie keeps starin’ at th’ greawnd, 
 An’ thinkin’ o’ th’ table at’s empty, 
 
 An’ th’ little tilings yammerin’ reawnd ; 
 
 It’s true, it looks dark just afore us, — 
 
 But, keep your hearts eawt o’ your shoon, — 
 Though douds may be thickenin’ o’er us, 
 There’s lots o’ blue sky up aboon ! 
 
Tickle Times. 
 
 25 
 
 ii. 
 
 But, when a mon’s honestly willin’, 
 
 An’ never a stroke to be had. 
 
 And clemmin’ for want ov a shillin’, — 
 No wonder his heart should be sad ; 
 It troubles him ill to keep seein’ 
 
 His little brids feedin’ o’ th’ air ; 
 
 An’ it feels very hard to be deem , 
 
 An’ never a mortal to care. 
 
 in. 
 
 But life’s sich a quare little travel, — 
 
 A marlock wi’ sun an’ wi’ shade, — 
 An’ then, on a bowster o’ gravel, 
 
 They lay’n us i’ bed wi’ a spade ; 
 
 It’s no use a peawtin’ an’ fratchin’ — 
 
 As th’ whirligig’s twirlin’ areawnd, 
 Have at it again ; and keep scratchin’ 
 
 As lung as your yed’s upo’ greawnd. 
 
26 
 
 Tickle Times. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Iv one could but grope i’ th’ inside on’t, 
 There’s trouble i’ every heart ; 
 
 An’ thoose that’n th’ biggest o’th’ pride on’t, 
 Oft leeten o’th’ keenest o’th’ smart : 
 Whatever may chance to come to us, 
 
 Let’s patiently hondle er share, — 
 
 For there’s mony a fine suit o clooas 
 That covers a murderin’ care. 
 
 v. 
 
 There’s danger i’ every station, — 
 
 I’th’ palace as mich as i’th’ cot \ 
 There’s hanker i’ every condition, 
 
 An’ canker i every lot ; 
 
 There’s folk that are weary o’ livin’ 
 That never knew hunger nor cowd ; 
 And there’s mony a miserly nowmun 
 That’s deed ov a surfeit o ? gowd. 
 
Tickle Times. 
 
 27 
 
 VI. 
 
 One feels, neaw at times are so nippin’, 
 
 A mons at a troublesome schoo’, 
 
 That slaves like a horse for a livin’. 
 
 An’ flings it away like a foo ; 
 
 But, as pleasur’s sometimes a misfortin’, 
 
 An’ trouble sometimes a good thing, — 
 Though we livin’ o’th* floor same as lay rocks, 
 Wen go up, like layrocks, to sing! 
 
JAMIE’S FROLIC. 
 
 neet aw crope whoam when my weigh vin’ 
 were o’er, 
 
 To brash mo, an wesh mo, an* fettle my yure \ 
 Then, trailin abeawt, wi’ my heart i’ my shoon, 
 Kept tryin my hond at a bit ov a tune, 
 
 As Mally sit rockin’, 
 
 An’ darnin’ a stockin’, 
 
 An’ tentin’ her bakin’ i’th’ o’on. 
 
Jamie s Frolic . 
 
 29 
 
 ir. 
 
 Th’ chylt were asleep, an’ my dooas were reet, 
 Th’ baggin were ready, an' o’ lookin' sweet ; 
 
 But aw’re mazy, an' nattle, an' fasten t to tell 
 What the dule it could be that’ re ailin’ mysel’ ; 
 An’ it made me so naught, 
 
 That, o’ someheaw, aw thought, 
 
 “ Aw could just like a snap at eawr Mall.” 
 
 in. 
 
 Poor lass, hoo were kinder becose aw were quare ; 
 t<r Come, Jamie, an ; settle thisel in a cheer ; 
 
 Thae’s looked very yonderly mony a day ; 
 
 It's grievin' to see heaw thae’rt wearin’ away, 
 
 An’ trailin’ abeawt. 
 
 Like a hen ats’ i’th meawt ; 
 
 Do, pritho, poo up to thi tay ! 
 
30 
 
 Jamie s Frolic. 
 
 IV. 
 
 “ Thae wants some new flannels — thae’s getten a 
 cowd, — 
 
 Thae’rt noather so ugly, my lad, nor so owd, — 
 But, thaer’t makin thisel’ into nought but a slave, 
 Wi’ weighvin’, an’ thinkin’, and tryin’ to save ; 
 Get summat to heyt, 
 
 Or thae’ll go eawt o’ seet, — 
 
 For thae’rt wortchin’ thisel' into th’ grave.” 
 
 v. 
 
 Thinks I, “ Th’ lass’s reet, an aw houd with her 
 
 Wit, 
 
 So, aw said — for aw wanted to cheer her a bit, — 
 u Owd crayter, aw’ve noan made my mind up to 
 dee ; 
 
 A frolick ’ll just be the physic for me ! 
 
 Aw’ll see some fresh places, 
 
 An look at fresh faces, — 
 
 An’ go have a bit of a spree!” 
 
Jamie s Frolic . 
 
 3i 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then, bumpin’ an’ splashin’ her kettle went deawn : 
 
 “ I’th name o’ good Katty, Jem, wheer arto beawn ? 
 
 An’ what sort o’ faces dost want,- — con to tell ? 
 
 Aw deawt thae’rt for makin’ a foo o’ thisel’, — 
 The dule may tent th’ o’on ; 
 
 Iv aw go witheawt shoon, 
 
 Aw’ll see where thae gwos to mysel’ !” 
 
 VII. 
 
 Thinks I, “ Th’ fat’s i’ th fire, — aw mun make it 
 no wur, — 
 
 For there’s plenty o’ feightin’ to do eawt o’th 
 dur, — 
 
 So, aw’ll talk very prattily to her, as heaw, 
 
 Or else hooll have houd o’ my toppin in neaw \ 
 
 An’ bith leet in her e’en, 
 
 It were fair to be sin 
 That hoo’re ready to rive me i’ teaw. 
 
32 
 
 Jamie s Frolic . 
 
 vm. 
 
 Iv truth mun be towd, aw begun to be fain 
 To study a bit o’ my cwortin’ again ; 
 
 So aw said to her, “ Mally,this world’s rough enoo ! 
 To fo’ eawt wi’ thoose one likes best, winnut do, — 
 It’s a very sore smart, 
 
 An’ it sticks long i’th heart,” — 
 
 An’, egad, aw said nought boh what’s true ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Lord, heaw a mon talks when his heart’s in his 
 tung ! 
 
 Aw roos’t her, poor lass, an’ aw shewed hoo wur 
 wrung, 
 
 Till hoo took mo bith hond, with a tear in her e’e, 
 An’ said, “ Jamie, there’s noabry as tender as thee ! 
 Forgi mo, lad, do ; 
 
 For aw’m nobbut a foo, — 
 
 An’ bide wi’ mo, neaw, till aw dee !” 
 
Jamie's Frolic. 
 
 33 
 
 x. 
 
 So, we’n bide one another, whatever may come ; 
 
 For, there’s no peace i’th world iv there’s no peace 
 awhoam ; 
 
 An’ neaw, when a random word gi’s her some 
 pain, 
 
 Or makes her a little bit crossish i’th grain, 
 Sunshine comes back, 
 
 As soon as aw crack 
 O’ beginning my cwortin’ again. 
 
 p 
 
OWD PINDER. 
 
 i. 
 
 QWD Pinder were a rackless foo. 
 An’ spent his days i’ spreein’ ; 
 At th’ end ov every drinkin-do, 
 
 He’re sure to crack o’ deein’ ; 
 
 “ Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon ; 
 
 Aw’s never live to trail ’em •, 
 
 My ballis-pipes are eawt o’ tune, 
 
 An’ th’ wynt begins to fail ’em !” 
 
Owd Pinder. 
 
 35 
 
 ii. 
 
 “ Eawr Matty’s very fresh an’ yung ; — 
 ’Twould any mon bewilder ; — 
 
 Hoo’ll wed again afore it’s lung, 
 
 For th’ lass is fond o’ childer ; 
 
 My bit o’ brass’ll fly, — yo’n see, — 
 
 When th’ coffin-lid has screened me ; 
 
 It gwos again my pluck to dee, 
 
 An’ lev her wick beheend me.” 
 
 in. 
 
 “ Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed ; 
 
 Aw’m finished, to my thinkin’ : ” 
 
 Hoo happed him nicely up, an’ said, 
 
 “ It’s nought i’th world but drinkin’ !” 
 
 “ Nay, nay,” said he, “ my fuddle’s done ; 
 
 We’re partin’ one fro tother ; 
 
 So promise me that when aw’m gwon, 
 Thea’ll never wed another !” 
 
36 
 
 Owd Pinder. 
 
 IV. 
 
 “Th’ owd tale,” said hoo, an’ laft her stoo ; 
 
 “ Its ray ley past believin’ ; 
 
 Thee think o’th world thea’rt goin’ to, 
 
 An’ lev this here to th’ livin’ ; 
 
 What use to me can dyed folk be ? 
 
 Thae’s kilt thysel’ wi’ spreein’ ; 
 
 An’ iv that’s o’ thae wants wi’ me, — 
 
 Get forrud wi’ thi deein’ ! ” 
 
 v. 
 
 He scrat his yed, he rubbed his e’e, 
 
 An then he donned his breeches ; 
 
 “ Eawr Matty gets as fause,” said he, 
 
 “ As one o’ Pendle witches ; 
 
 Iv ever aw’m to muster wit, 
 
 It mun be now or never ; 
 
 Aw think aw’ll try to live a bit •, 
 
 It wouldn’t do to lyev her !” 
 
COME, JAMIE, LET’S UNDO THI SHOON. 
 
 X. 
 
 ^^OME, Jamie, let’s undo thi shoon; 
 
 An’ don summat dry o’ thi feet ; 
 
 Wi’ toilin’ i’th sheaw’r up an’ deawn ; 
 
 Aw’m fleyed at thi stockin’s are weet ; 
 
 An’, here, wi’ my yung uns i’th neest, 
 
 Aw bin hearkenin’ to th’ patterin’ rain, 
 
 An’ longing for th’ wanderin’ brid 
 To come to his roost back again. 
 
38 Come , Jamie , let's tmdo thi Shoon. 
 
 ii. 
 
 To-day, just when it pelted at th’ height, 
 
 “ Aw’ll ston it no longer,” said I ; 
 
 An’ rayley, it didn’t look reet 
 To keawer under cover so dry : 
 
 So, though it were rainin’ like mad, 
 
 Aw thought — for my heart gav a swell, 
 “ Come deawn asto will, but yon lad 
 Shall not have it o’ to hissel’ ! ” 
 
 hi. 
 
 So, whippin’ my bucket i’th rain, 
 
 Aw ga’ th’ bits o’ windows a swill ; 
 An’, though aw geet drenched to my skin, 
 Aw’re better content wi’ mysel’ : 
 
 But, theaw stons theer smilin’ o’ th’ floor, 
 Like a sun-fleawer drippin’ wi’ weet : 
 Eh, Jamie, theaw knowsn’t, aw’m sure, 
 Heaw fain aw’m to see tho to-neet ! 
 
Come, Jamie , let's undo thi Shoon. 39 
 
 IV. 
 
 Why lass ; what’s a sheawer to roe ? 
 
 Aw’ve plenty o’ sun i’ my breast, 
 My wark keeps me hearty an’ free, 
 
 An’ gi’s me a relish for rest : 
 
 Aw’m noan made o’ sugar nor saut, 
 That melts wi’ a steepin’ o’ rain \ 
 An’, as for my jacket, — it’s nought, — 
 Aw’ll dry it by th’ leet o’ thi e’en ! 
 
 v. 
 
 So, sit tho deawn close by my side, — 
 Aw’m full as a cricket wi’ glee ; 
 Aw’m trouble’t wi’ nothin’ but pride, 
 An’ o’ on it owin’ to thee \ 
 
 Theaw trim little pattern for wives \ — 
 Come, give a poor body a kiss ! 
 
 Aw wish every storm ov er lives 
 May end up as nicely as this ! 
 
TH’ GOBLIN PARSON. 
 
 i. 
 
 ^ J" V H’ wynt wur still Pth shade o’th hill, 
 An’ stars began o’ glowin’ 
 
 I’th fadin’ leet, one summer neet. 
 
 When th’ dew wur softly foin’ ; 
 
 Wi’ weary shanks, by primrose banks, 
 Where rindlin’ weet wur shinin’, 
 
 Aw whistle’t careless, wanderin’ slow. 
 Toward my cot inclinin’. 
 
Th ’ Goblin Parson . 
 
 4i 
 
 11. 
 
 Through th’ woodlan , green aw tooted keen, 
 For th’ little window winkin'; — 
 
 Th’ stars may shine, they’re noan as fine 
 As Matty’s candle blinkin’ ; — 
 
 O’er th’ rosy hedge aw went to th’ ridge 
 O’th’ lonesome-shaded plantin’, 
 
 To get another blink o’ th’ leet 
 That set my heart a-pantin’. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Then deawn bi’th well i’th fairy-dell, 
 
 Wi’ trees aboon it knittin’ ; 
 
 Where, near an’ fur ther nowt astur 
 But bats i’th eawl-leet flittin’ ; 
 
 An’ fyerful seawnds that rustle’t reawnd 
 I’ mony a goblin-flitter, 
 
 As swarmin’ dark to flaysome wark 
 They flew wi’ hellish titter. 
 
42 
 
 Tti Goblin Parson. 
 
 IV. 
 
 There, reet anent aw geet a glent 
 At brought a shiver o’er mo, 
 
 For, fair i’th’ track ther summat black 
 Coom creepin’ on afore mo ; 
 
 It war not clear, but it wur theer, 
 
 Wi’ th’ gloomy shadow blendin’ \ 
 
 Neaw black an’ slim, neaw grey an’ grim, 
 Wi* noather side nor endin’. 
 
 v* 
 
 Cowd drops wur tremblin’ o’ my broo, 
 
 As there aw stoode belated ; — 
 
 Aw durstn’t turn, nor durstn’t goo, 
 
 But shut my e’en, an’ waited ; 
 
 An just as aw begun to pray, 
 
 There coom fro’ th’ creepin’ spectre 
 A weel known seawnd that said, “ Well, James 
 ’Twur nowt but th’ village rector. 
 
TJi Goblin Parson. 
 
 43 
 
 VI. 
 
 “ Well, James,” said he, “ I’m fain to see 
 Yor pew so weel attended, 
 
 But then, yo should’nt fo’ asleep 
 Afore my sarmon’s ended 
 To dreawsy ears it’s useless quite 
 To scatter holy teychin’ ; 
 
 Why don’t yo bring a bit o’ snuff, 
 
 An’ tak it while I’m preychin’. 
 
 VII. 
 
 “ Well, well,” said aw, u There’s monya way 
 O’ keepin’ e’en fro closin’, 
 
 A needle would keep th’ body wake, 
 
 An’ th’ soul may still be dozin’ ; 
 
 But this receipt would set it reet, 
 
 Iv’ th’ mixture wur a warm un, — 
 
 Yo get some stingin gospel-snuff, 
 
 An’ put it into th’ sarmon.” 
 
44 
 
 Tit Goblin Parson. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 He stare’ t like mad, but th’ good owd lad 
 Then grip’t my hond, warm-hearted, 
 
 An’ said, “ Yo’re reet — yo’re reet — good neet!” 
 An’ that wur heaw we parted. 
 
 It touched my heart, an’ made it smart, 
 
 He spoke so mild and pratty ; — 
 
 Aw blest him as he walked away, 
 
 An’ then went whoam to Matty. 
 
WHILE TAKIN’ A WIFT O’ MY PIPE. 
 
 i. 
 
 ^^THILE takin’ a wift o’ my pipe tother neet, 
 A thowt trickled into my pate, 
 
 That sulkin’ becose everything isn’t sweet, 
 
 Is nobbut a foolish consate ; 
 
 Iv mon had bin made for a bit of a spree, 
 
 An th’ world were a marlockin’ schoo’, 
 
 Wi’ nought nobbut heytin’, an’ drinkin’, an’ glee, 
 An’ haliday gam to go through, 
 
 He’d sicken afore 
 His frolic were o’er, 
 
 An’ feel he’d bin born for a foo. 
 
46 While takiri a Wift o' my Pipe. 
 
 11. 
 
 Poor crayter, he’s o’ discontentment an’ deawt, 
 Whatever his fortin may be ; 
 
 He’s just like a chylt at goes cryin’ abeawt, 
 
 “ Eawr Johnny’s moor traycle nor me 
 
 One minute he’s troubled, next minute he’s fain, 
 An’ then, they’re so blended i’ one. 
 
 It’s hard to tell whether he’s laughin’ through pain, 
 Or whether he’s peawtin’ for fun ; — 
 
 He stumbles, an’ grumbles, 
 
 He struggles, an’ juggles, — 
 
 He capers a bit, — an’ he’s gone. 
 
 in. 
 
 It’s wise to be humble i’ prosperous ways, 
 
 For trouble may chance to be nee ; 
 
 It’s wise for to struggle wi’ sorrowful days 
 Till sorrow breeds sensible glee ; 
 
 He’s rich that, contented wi’ little, lives weel, 
 
 An’ nurses his little to moor ; 
 
While takiri a Wift o my Pipe . 47 
 
 He’s weel off ’at’s rich, iv he nobbut can feel 
 He’s brother to those that are poor ; 
 
 An’ to him ’at does fair, 
 
 Though his livin’ be bare, 
 
 Some comfort shall ever be sure. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Wen nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below, 
 
 An’ th’ lungest is very soon spent ; 
 
 'There’s summat aboon measur’s cut’s for us o’, 
 An’ th’ most on ’em nobbut a fent ; 
 
 Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that, 
 Wen make th’ best o’th’ stuff till it’s done; 
 An’ when it leets eawt to get rivven a bit, 
 
 Let’s darn it as weel as we con. 
 
 When th’ order comes to us 
 To doff these owd clooas. 
 
 There’ll surely be new uns to don. 
 
GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE ! 
 
 i. 
 
 JONE, lad, though thy hond’s 
 Like reawsty iron to feel, 
 
 There’s very few i’th lond 
 Aw like to gripe as weel. 
 
 Tha’ll never dee i’th dumps 
 Becose o’ bein’ poor, 
 
 Thae good owd king o’ trumps, — 
 God bless thi silver yure ! 
 
God bless thi Silver Yure ! * 
 
 49 
 
 n. 
 
 Poo up to th’ side o’th hob, 
 
 An’ rest thi weary shanks, 
 An’ dunnot fret thy nob 
 WT fortin an’ her pranks ; 
 These folk at’s preawd an’ rich 
 May tremble at her freawn, 
 They’n further far nor sich 
 As thee to tumble deawn. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Theaw never longs for wine, 
 Nor dainties rich an’ rare, 
 For sich a life as thine 
 Can sweeten simple fare ; 
 Contented wi ? thi meal, 
 
 Thea’s wit enough to know 
 That daisies liven weel 
 
 Where tulips connot grow. 
 
 E 
 
So 
 
 God bless thi Silver Yure ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 An’ though thi clooas are rough, 
 An’ getting very owd, 
 
 They’n onswer weel enough 
 
 To keep thi limbs fro’ th’ cowd 
 A foo would pine away 
 I* sich a suit as thine, 
 
 But, thear’t the stuff to may 
 A fustian jacket fine. 
 
 v. 
 
 A tattered clowt may lap 
 A very noble prize \ 
 
 A king may be, by hap, 
 
 A beggar i’ disguise. 
 
 When tone has laft his feast, 
 
 An’ tother done his crust, 
 Then, which is which, at last, — 
 These little piles o’ dust ? 
 
God bless thi Silver Yure ! 
 
 5i 
 
 VI. 
 
 An’ though thy share o’ life. 
 
 May seem a losin’ game, 
 Thae’s striven fair i’th strife. 
 
 An’ kept a dacent aim ; 
 
 No meawse-nooks i’ thi mind, 
 Nor malice i’ thi breast, 
 
 Thae’s still bin true an’ kind. 
 
 An’ trusted fate wi’ th’ rest. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Through trouble, toil, an’ wrung, 
 Thae’s whistle’t at thi wark, 
 An’ wrostle’t life so lung, 
 
 Thi limbs are gettin stark ; 
 
 But then, a heart like thine’s 
 A never-failin’ friend ; 
 
 It cheers a mon’s decline. 
 
 An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of ILUHOR- 
 
52 
 
 God bless thi Silver Yure ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thy banner 11 soon be furled, 
 An then they’n ha’ to tell, 
 
 “ He travell’t th’ dirty world, 
 An’ never soill hissel’ ! ” 
 
 An’ when aw come to dee, 
 An 5 death has taen his tow, 
 Aw hope to leet o’ thee, — 
 God bless thi snowy pow ! 
 
MAR GIT ’S COMIN’. 
 
 Air— “ Tti Rakes o' Mellor. 
 
 I^ H ! Sam, whatever does to myen, 
 
 Aw see thae’rt theer i’th nook again ; — 
 Where aw’ve a gill thae’s nine or ten ; 
 
 Thae mun have heirt a fortin ! 
 
 Aw wonder heaw a mon can sit 
 An’ waste his bit o’ wage an’ wit : 
 
 If aw’re thi wife aw’d make tho flit, 
 
 Wi’ little time to start in. 
 
54 
 
 Mar gits Cornin'. 
 
 ii. 
 
 But, houd *, yor Margins up i’th teawn ; 
 Aw yerd her ax for thee at th’ Crown ; 
 An’, just meet neaw, aw scampert deawn 
 It’s true as aught i’th Bible ! 
 
 Thae knows yor Margit weel ov owd \ 
 Her tung, — it makes mo fair go cowd, 
 
 Sin’ th’ day hoo broke my nose i’th fowd 
 Wi’ th’ edge o’ th’ porritch thible. 
 
 in. 
 
 It’s ten to one hoo’ll co’ in here, 
 
 An’ poo tho eawt o’th corner cheer ; 
 
 So, sit fur back, where th’ runnin’s clear ; 
 
 Aw’ll keep my een o’ th’ window ; 
 Thae’m mind te hits, an’ when aw sheawt 
 Be limber-legged, an’ lammas eawt ; 
 
 An, — though hoo’ll not believe, aw deawt, 
 Aw’ll swear aw never sin tho. 
 
Mar gits Cornin ' . 
 
 55 
 
 IV. 
 
 Aw’ll bite my tung, aw will, bith mon, 
 An’ plug my ears up till hoo’s gwon ; 
 
 A groom’ tree could hardly ston 
 A savage woman fiytin’ ; 
 
 Iv folk were nobbut o’ i’th mind 
 To make their bits o’ booses kind, 
 There’d be less wanderin’ eawt to find 
 A corner to be quiet in. 
 
 v. 
 
 It’s nearly three o’clock bith chime : 
 
 This ale o’ Jem’s is very prime \ 
 
 Aw’ll keawer mo deawn till baggin-time, 
 An’ have a reech o’ bacco ; — 
 
 Aw guess thae’s yerd ’at Clinker lad 
 An’ Liltin’ Jenny’s getten wed ; 
 
 An’ Collop’s gooing wrang i’th yed, — 
 But, that’s not mich to crack o’. 
 
56 
 
 Margins Comiri. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There’s news that chaps ’at wore a creawn, 
 Are gettin’ powler’t up an’ deawn, 
 
 They’re puncin’ ’em fro teawn to teawn, 
 Like foot-bo’s in a pastur \ 
 
 Yon Garibaldi’s gan ’em silk ; 
 
 Th’ owd lad ; he’s fairly made ’em swilk ; 
 An’ neaw, they sen he’s sellin’ milk 
 To raise new clooas for Ayster. 
 
 VII. 
 
 There’s some are creepin’ eawt o’th slutch, 
 An’ some are gettin’ deawn i’th doitch ; 
 
 Bith mon, aw never yerd o’ sich 
 A world for change o’ fortin ! 
 
 They’re gooin’ groanin’ eawt o’th’ seet ; 
 They’re cornin’ cryin’ into th’ leet ; 
 
 But howd ! aw yerd last Monday neet, 
 
 A tale abeawt a cwortin’. 
 
Margins Cornin'. 
 
 57 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Poo up ! aw’ll tell it iv aw con ; — 
 
 Thae knows that bow-legged railway mon — 
 But, heigh, owd lad ! yor Margit’s yon, — 
 Hoo’s cornin’ like a racer !— 
 
 Some foo has put her upo’ th’ track ; 
 
 Cut, Sam ; hoo’ll have us in a crack ! 
 
 Aw said hoo’d come — let’s run eawt th’ back ; 
 Bith mass, aw dar not face her 
 
EAWR FOLK. 
 
 i. 
 
 Johnny gi’s his mind to books ; 
 Er Abram studies plants, — 
 
 He caps the dule for moss an* ferns, 
 An’ groom’ polyants ; 
 
 For aught abeawt mechanickin’, 
 
 Er Ned’s the very lad ; 
 
 My uncle Jamie roots i’th stars, 
 Enough to drive him mad. 
 
Eawr Folk . 
 
 59 
 
 ii. 
 
 Er Alick keeps a badger's shop, 
 
 An teyches Sunday schoo' ; 
 
 Er Joseph's welly blynt, poor lad ; 
 
 Er Timothy's — a foo \ — 
 
 He's tried three different maks o' trades, 
 An' olez missed his tip ; 
 
 But, then, he's th’ prattist whistler 
 That ever cocked a lip ! 
 
 hi. 
 
 Er Matty helps my mother, an’ 
 
 Hoo sews, an' tents er Joe ; 
 
 At doin' sums, an' sich as that, 
 
 My feyther licks ’em o' ; 
 
 Er Charley, — eh, there connot be 
 Another pate like his, 
 
 It's o' crom-full o' ancientry, 
 
 An' Roman haw-pennies ! 
 
6o 
 
 Eawr Folk. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Er Tummy’s taen to preitchin’, — 
 
 He’s a topper at it, too ; 
 
 But then, — what’s th’ use, — er Bill comes 
 An’ swears it winnot do \ 
 
 When tone’s bin strivin’ o’ he con 
 To aw ter wicked men, 
 
 Then tother mays some marlocks, an’ 
 Convarts ’em back again. 
 
 v. 
 
 Er Abel’s th’ yung’st ; an’ next to Joe, 
 My mother likes him t’ best \ 
 
 Hoo gi’s him brass aboon his share, 
 To keep him nicely drest ; — 
 
 He’s gettin in wi’ th’ quality, 
 
 An’ when his clarkin’s done, 
 
 He’s olez oather cricketin’, 
 
 Or shootin’ wi’ a gun. 
 
Eawr Folk. 
 
 VI. 
 
 My uncle Sam’s a fiddler ; an’ 
 
 Aw fain could yer him play 
 Fro set o’ sun till winter neet 
 Had melted into day ; 
 
 For eh, — sich glee — sich tenderness ! 
 
 Through every changin’ part, 
 
 It’s th’ heart ’at stirs his fiddle, — 
 
 An’ his fiddle stirs his heart. 
 
 VII. 
 
 An’ when he touches th’ tremblin’ streng, 
 It knows his thowt so weel. 
 
 It seawnds as iv an angel tried 
 To tell what angels feel ; 
 
 An’, sometimes, th’ way ter in his e’en, 
 
 ’At fun has made to flow, 
 
 Can hardly roll away, afore 
 It’s weshed wi’ drops o’ woe. 
 
62 
 
 Eawr Folk . 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then, here’s to Jone, an’ Ab, an’ Ned, 
 An’ Matty, — an’ er Joe, — 
 
 My feyther, an’ my mother ; an 5 
 Er tother lads an o’ *, 
 
 An’ thee, too, owd musicianer, — 
 
 Aw wish lung life to thee * 
 
 A mon ’at plays a fiddle weel 
 Should never awse to dee ! 
 

 TH’ SWEETHEART GATE. 
 
 Air — “ The Manchester Angel. ” 
 
 there’s mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn- 
 end, — 
 
 % 
 
 But nobbut one for me ; 
 
 It winds by a rindlin’ wayter side, 
 
 An’ o’er a posied lea : 
 
 It wanders into a shady dell ; 
 
 An’ when aw’ve done for th’ day, 
 
 Oh, aw never can sattle this heart o’ mine, 
 
 Beawt walkin' deawn that way. 
 
6 4 
 
 Tti Sweetheart Gate. 
 
 ii. 
 
 It’s noather garden, nor posied lea, 
 
 Nor wayter rindlin’ clear 
 But deawn’ i’th vale there’s a rosy nook, 
 
 An’ my true love lives theer. 
 
 It’s olez summer where th’ heart’s content, 
 
 Tho’ wintry winds may blow ; 
 
 An’ there’s never a gate ’at’s so kind to th’ fuut, 
 As th’ gate one likes to go. 
 
 in. 
 
 When aw set off o’ sweetheartin’, aw’ve 
 A theawsan’ things to say ; 
 
 But th’ very first glent o’ yon chimbley-top, 
 
 It drives ’em o’ away \ 
 
 An’ when aw meet wi’ my bonny lass, 
 
 It sets my heart a-jee *, — 
 
 Oh, there’s summut i’th leet o’ yon two blue e’ 
 That plays the dule wi’ me ! 
 
TJi Sweetheart Gate. 
 
 65 
 
 IV. 
 
 When th’ layrock’s finished his wark aboon, 
 An 5 laid his music by, 
 
 He flutters deawn to his mate, an’ stops 
 Till dayleet stirs i’th sky. 
 
 Though Matty sends me away at dark, 
 
 Aw know that hoo’s reet full well ; — 
 An’ it’s heaw aw love a true-hearted lass, 
 No mortal tung can tell. 
 
 v. 
 
 Aw wish that Candlemas Day were past. 
 When wakin’ time comes on ; 
 
 An’ aw wish that Kesmass time were here, 
 An’ Matty an’ me were one. 
 
 Aw wish this wanderin’ wark were o’er — 
 This maunderin’ to an’ fro ; 
 
 That aw could go whoam to my own true love. 
 An’ stop at neet an’ o’. 
 
 F 
 
GENTLE JONE. 
 
 Air — “ Jenny's Bawbee . ” 
 
 I. 
 
 J SEED a thowtful chap one day, 
 
 His face were mild, his toppin gray ; 
 Wi’ wanderin’ fuut he went astray, 
 Deawn yon lone. 
 
 I axed a lame owd mon i’th road, 
 
 To tell me what that chap were co’d ; 
 Says he, “ I thowt oitch body knowed 
 Gentle Jone.” 
 
Gentle Jone . 
 
 67 
 
 11. 
 
 ^ Owd lad, ’ said I, “ just look heaw ronk 
 These daisies groo’n at th’ edge o’th bonk ; 
 Let’s keawer us deawn, an’ have a conk, 
 Just whol noon.” 
 
 He poo’d a reech o’ bacco eawt, 
 
 An’ cheese an’ moufin in a cleawt ; 
 
 An' thus began to tell abeawt 
 Gentle Jone. 
 
 in. 
 
 Says he, “ Some chaps o’ brass are fond ; 
 They’re trouble’t sore wi’ cramp i’th hond ; 
 
 But yon’s the fleawer ov o’ this lond, 
 
 Gentle Jone ! 
 
 His heart’s as true as guinea-go wd ; 
 
 He’s good to folk at’s ill an’ owd ; 
 
 Child er poo’n his lap i’th fowd, — 
 
 Gentle Jone ! 
 
68 
 
 Gentle Jone. 
 
 IV. 
 
 “ I’ll bet a groat he’s off to th’ vale, 
 Just neaw, to yer some soory tale ; 
 
 I never knowed his kindness fail, — 
 Gentle Jone ! 
 
 O’er hill, an’ cloof, an’ moss, an’ moor, 
 He’s reet weel known to folk at’s poor ; 
 A welcome fuut at every door, — 
 
 Gentle Jone ! 
 
 v. 
 
 “ He taks delight i’ roving reawnd, 
 
 To nooks where trouble’s mostly feawnd ; 
 He comes like rain to drufty greawnd, — 
 Gentle Jone ! 
 
 He’s very slow at thinkin’ ill ; 
 
 Forgi’s a faut wi’ hearty will ; 
 
 An’ doin’ good’s his pastime still, — 
 
 Gentle Jone ! 
 
Gentle Jone , 
 
 69 
 
 VI. 
 
 tc At th’ time I broke this poor owd limb, 
 
 I should ha’ dee’d except for him.” 
 
 He said no moor ; his een geet dim, — 
 
 Mine were th’ same. 
 
 “ Owd lad,” said I, “ Come, have a gill !” 
 “ Naw, naw,” said he, “ I’m rayther ill ; 
 
 It s time to paddle deawn this hill, 
 
 To th’ owd dame.” 
 
 VII. 
 
 ’Twere nearly noon, L’th month o’ May ; 
 We said we’d meet some other day ; 
 
 An then th’ owd crayter limped away 
 Deawn th’ green lone. 
 
 An neaw, let s do the thing that’s reet, 
 An’ then, when death put’s eawt er leet, 
 We’s haply ston a chance to meet 
 Gentle Jone. 
 
NEET-FO’. 
 
 Old Air — “ When Dolly and I got wed” 
 
 I. 
 
 wynt blows keen through th’ shiverin’ 
 thorns, 
 
 An’ th’ leet looks wild i’th sky ; 
 
 Come, Tet, stir up that fire ; an’ draw 
 That keyther gently by •, 
 
 Aw’ve done my weshin’, gronny an’ 
 
 Aw’ve tidied every thing ; 
 
 An’ neaw aw’ll sit me deawn to sew. 
 
 An’ hearken th’ kettle sing. 
 
Neet-Fo. 
 
 7i 
 
 11. 
 
 Bring in some coals ; an’ shut that dur,— 
 It’s quite a wintry day ; 
 
 Reitch deawn that ham : eawr Robin likes 
 A relish to his tay. 
 
 Sweep th’ grate, an’ set this table eawt ; 
 
 Put th’ tay-pot upo’ th’ oon ; 
 
 It’s gettin’ on for baggin’ time, 
 
 An’ he’ll be cornin’ soon. 
 
 hi. 
 
 Th’ fire burns clear ; an’ th’ heawse begins 
 A-lookin’ brisk an’ breet, 
 
 As th’ time draws near when he gets back 
 Fro’ the teawn at th’ edge o’ neet ; 
 
 It makes one hutch wi’ glee to yer 
 A favourite fuut come whoam ; 
 
 An’ it’s very fine to hearken, when 
 One knows it’s sure to come. 
 
72 
 
 Neet-Fo\ 
 
 IV. 
 
 Tli cat pricks up her ears at th’ sneck, 
 Wi’ mony a leetsome toot ; 
 
 An’ th’ owd arm-cheer i’th corner seems 
 As if it yerd his fuut ; 
 
 Th’ window blinks ; an’ the clock begins 
 A-tickin 7 leawd an fain *, 
 
 An 7 th 7 tin things winkin’ upo’ th’ wole, — 
 They groon as breet again. 
 
 v. 
 
 Th’ kettle’s hummin’ o’er wi’ fun — 
 
 Just look at th’ end o’ th’ speawt ; 
 
 Its like some litde sooty lad 
 Ats set his lips to sheawt. 
 
 Yon wayter-drops at fon fro’ th’ tap ? 
 Are gettin’ wick wi 7 glee ; 
 
 An’ yo’re fain, gronny, too, aw know, — 
 But noan as fain as me. 
 
73 
 
 Neet-Fo\ 
 
 VI. 
 
 Keep th’ rockers gooin’ soft and slow, 
 
 An’ shade that leet away ; 
 
 Aw think this little duck’s o’ th’ mend, 
 Hoo sleeps so weel to-day ; 
 
 Doze on, my darlin’ •> keep ’em shut, — 
 Those teeny windows blue ; 
 
 Good Lord ! iv aught should happen thee, 
 What could thi mother do ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Here, gronny, put this cover on, 
 
 An’ tuck it nicely in ; 
 
 Keep th’ keyther stirrin’ gently ; an’ 
 
 Make very little din. 
 
 An lap thoose dimpled honds away 
 Fro’ the frosty winter air ; 
 
 They lien a-top o’ th’ bit o’ quilt, 
 
 Like two clock-hommers theer. 
 
74 
 
 Neet-Fo\ 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But stop ; hoo’s laughin’ ! come, hie up, 
 
 My bonny little puss ! 
 
 God bless it ! Daddy’s noan far off; 
 
 Let mammy have a buss ! 
 
 He’s here ! He’s here ! Tet, bring that cheer ; 
 
 Eh, dear *, these darlin’s two ! 
 
 Iv it wur not for this chylt an’ him, 
 
 What could a body do ! 
 
AW’VE WORN MY BITS O’ SHOON 
 AWAY. 
 
 ^^W’VE worn my, bits o’ shoon away, 
 Wi’ roving up an’ deawn, 
 
 To see yon moorlan’ valleys, an’ 
 
 Yon little country teawn : 
 
 The dule tak shoon, and stockins too ! 
 
 This heart feels warm an’ fain ; 
 
 An’, if aw trudge it bar fuut, lads, 
 
 Aw’ll see yon teawn again ! 
 
7 6 A wve worn my bits o' Shoon away. 
 
 ii. 
 
 It’s what care I for cities grand, — 
 
 We never shall agree ; 
 
 Aw’d rayther live where th’ lay rock sings, — 
 A country teawn for me ! 
 
 A country teawn, where one can meet 
 Wi’ friends, an’ neighbours known *, 
 
 Where one can lounge i’th’ market-place, 
 An’ see the meadows mown. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yon rollin’ hills are very fine, 
 
 At th’ end o’ sweet July ; 
 
 Yon woodlan’ cloofs, an’ valleys green, — 
 The bonnist under th’ sky ; 
 
 Yon dainty rindles, dancin’ deawn 
 Fro’ th’ meawntains into th’ plain — 
 
 As soon as th’ new moon rises, lads, * 
 Aw’m off to th’ moors again ! 
 
Aw’ve worn my bits o’ Shoon away. 77 
 
 IV. 
 
 There s jolly lads among yon hills. 
 
 An in yon country teawn ; 
 
 They’n far moor sense than preawder folk,— 
 Aw’ll peawnd it for a creawn ; 
 
 They re wick an’ warm at wark an’ fun, 
 
 Wherever they may go, 
 
 The primest breed o’ lads i’th world,— 
 
 Good luck attend ’em o’ ! 
 
 Last neet aw laft the city thrung, 
 
 An climbed yon hillock green ; 
 An’ sat me deawn to look at th’ hills, 
 Wi’ th’ wayter i’ my .e’en ; 
 
 Wi’ th’ wayter wellin’ i’ my e’en ; — 
 Aw’ll bundle up, an’ go. 
 
 An live an’ dee i’ my own countrie. 
 Where moorlan’ breezes blow I 
 
YESTERNEET. 
 
 i. 
 
 J GEET up a-milkm this morn'in’, — 
 
 I geet up afore it wur leet ; 
 
 I ne’er slept a minute for thinkin’ 
 
 What Robin said yesterneet , 
 
 I’ve brokken two basins i’th dairy ; 
 
 I’ve scoaded my gronny wi’ tay *, 
 
 It’s no use o’ tryin’ a-spinnin’ — 
 
 My wheel’s eawt o’ trim to-day. 
 
 Chorus . 
 
 It’s oh, yon Robin, yon Robin ; 
 
 His e’en ne’er twinkle’t so breet, 
 
 As they did when he meazur’t my finger 
 For th’ little gowd ring last neet. 
 
Yesterneet. 
 
 7 9 
 
 ii. 
 
 Eawr Dorothy’s singin’ i’th shippon ; 
 
 Eawr Jonathan’s leawngin’ i’th fowd ; 
 Eawr Tummy’s at th’ fair, where he lippens 
 O’ swappin’ his cowt for gowd ; 
 
 My granny’s asleep wi’ her knittin’. 
 
 An th kittlin s playin wi’ th’ yarn ; 
 
 Eawr Betty’s gone eawt wi’ a gallon 
 To th’ chaps at their wark i’th barn. 
 
 Chorus. But oh, yon Robin, yon Robin, 
 in. 
 
 Th lasses an lads are i’th meadow ; 
 
 They’re gettin’ their baggin’ i’th hay ; 
 
 I yer ’em as leetsome as layrocks, 
 
 I’th sky ov a shiny day ; 
 
 But, little I care for their marlocks ; 
 
 I dunnot want them for to see, 
 
 Though I m fitter for cryin’ than laughin’, 
 There’s nob’dy as fain as me. 
 
 Chorus. For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin. 
 
8 o 
 
 Yesterneet. 
 
 TV. 
 
 When I crept into th’ nook wi’ my sewin’, 
 
 My mother looked reawnd her so sly *, 
 
 Hoo know’d I could see across th’ coppice. 
 Where Robin comes ridin’ by *, 
 
 Then hoo coom to me, smilin’ an’ tootin’, 
 
 An’ whisperin’, “ Heaw doesto feel ? 
 
 Doesto think I should send for a doctor ?” 
 
 But, th’ doctor hoo knows reet weel, 
 
 Chorus . — It’s nought i’th world but Robin. 
 
 v. 
 
 My feyther sits dozin’ i’th’ corner, 
 
 He’s dreamin’ o’th’ harvestin’ day : 
 
 When Robin comes in for his daughter, 
 
 Eh, what’ll my feyther say ? 
 
 Th’ rosebuds are peepin’ i’th garden ; 
 
 An’ blossom hangs thick upo’ th’ tree , — 
 Oh, heaw will life’s winter time find us, — 
 
 My own bonny lad an’ me ? 
 
 Chorus . — For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin. 
 
Yesterneet. 
 
 vr. 
 
 Then, hey for kissin’ an’ blushing 
 An' hurryin’ to an’ fro 
 An’ hey for sly, sweet whispers, 
 
 That nob’dy but me mun know ! 
 
 Then, hey for rings, an’ ribbins, 
 
 An’ bonnets, an’ posies fine ! 
 
 An’ eh,— it’s d in a flutter, — 
 
 This little warm heart o’ mine ! 
 
 Chorus . 
 
 For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin ; 
 
 His e’en ne’er twinkle’t so breet, 
 
 % 
 
 As they did when he meazur’t my fing 
 For th’ little gowd ring last neet. 
 
 Printed by John Heywood, Deansgate , Manchester. 
 
W orks in the Lancashire 
 
 Dialect, 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN HEYWOOD. 
 
 Price 6d., 
 
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 ABOUT OWD BODLE. By Edwin 
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Works in the Lancashire Dialect , Published by John 
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Now ready (Illustrated), ^ vols., cloth gilt, price 5s., 
 
 Tales and 
 
 Sketches of Lancashire Life. 
 
 By Benjamin Brierley. 
 
 Contents . 
 
 A Day Out (Daisy Nook) (Illustration). 
 
 Our Cheap Trip. 
 
 A Strike Adventure. 
 
 The Gravel-gate Flood. 
 
 The Comet. 
 
 Easter Holidays. 
 
 Bunk Ho’ (Illustration). 
 
 Annie Howard. 
 
 Old Radicals and Young Reformers. 
 
 The Bride of Cherry-tree Cottage. 
 
 The New Borough. 
 
 Rushbearing (Illustration). 
 
 The Charity Sermon. 
 
 Jone o’ Pee’s Courtship. 
 
 Traddlepin Fold (Illustration). 
 
 Glossary of the Lancashire Dialect. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 “ These sketches of the moral interior of a manu- 
 facturing operative’s life are genuine specimens of a 
 new vein in English literature. * * * They are as 
 
 full of local flavour and reality as if cut clean out of 
 the substance of actual lif z?— Spectator. 
 
Tales and Sketches of Lancashire Life— Continued. 
 
 Opinions of the Press— Continued. 
 
 “ Mr> Brierlev ’ s venture is by no means a bad 
 one. His writing has some excellent points about it. 
 He knows a man when he sees one ; and his scenery 
 and local descriptions accommodate themselves to his 
 characters with much naturalness.”— Saturday Review. 
 
 These sketches are so well worth reading that we 
 cannot help regretting the perpetual tax on the reader’s 
 patience, caused by the Lancashire Dialect, in which 
 all the conversations are given. Those who can take 
 the trouble to master it will, however, be repaid for 
 their exertion.” — Economist. 
 
 “ We are glad to see that Mr. Benjamin Brierley 
 has brought to an end his series of provincial tales, 
 which may at some distant date be highly esteemed by 
 antiquanes as truthful and carefully executed illustra- 
 tions of the Lancashire Dialect of the nineteenth cen- 
 tuiy.” — Athenceum. 
 
 “ A welcome addition to our local literature, and 
 doubly so as a revelation of the ‘warp and weft’ that is 
 amongst our workers. "—Manchester Guardian. 
 
 “Benjamin Brierley has already secured an 
 honourable position among the self-sustained and self- 
 educated men of Lancashire. The promise he made 
 in his earlier sketches has been amply redeemed by a 
 
Tales and Sketches of Lancashire Life — Continued . 
 
 Opinions of the Press — Continued . 
 
 progressive advance, as well in facility of writing, as in 
 the appreciation of good taste. He tells a story with 
 infinite humour, and occasionally with a picturesque 
 pen, and a heart beating to nature’s sweetest and most 
 touching music .” — Manchester Examiner and Times. 
 
 “ We venerate, love, smile, laugh, shout, romp, or 
 drop a sympathising tear as we contemplate each 
 group.” — Oldh am T imes. 
 
 “ Mr. Brierley draws his characters with an ease 
 and simplicity quite Goldsmith-like .” — Preston Herald. 
 
 “ A truer sketch of Lancashire Life and Manners, 
 and scenery in its secluded paths, was never drawn, 
 than is the description of ‘Daisy Nook.’ It will re- 
 main a study for painters of true taste, when many 
 others are forgotten .” — Samuel Bamford. 
 
 Price 2d., 
 
 A Visit to “ Daisy Nook;' 
 
 OR, 
 
 A LONDONER’S GLANCE AT LANCA- 
 SHIRE LIFE. 
 
 By a Member of the Savage Club. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

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