Edwin Waugh: Poems and Songs II. (4)

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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!”


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:
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!”


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?”
“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!”

 

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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!

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!

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!

“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!

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!

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!

 

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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.


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.


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.


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.


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.

 

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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.


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.


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.

 
1. Jannock: a thick unleavened oaten cake, formerly common
     in rustic Lancashire.
 
2. Snighs: to slight, to despise.
 
3. Lither: lazy.
 
4. Guttle: to gourmandize.
 
5. Swither: a disturbance, a state of tremulous uncertainty.
 
6.
Bepowlert an' pown: jolted about, and beaten.

 

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Heigh, Jone, Owd Brid!


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!
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!


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!

 

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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.


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!


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!

 

_________________________

 
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!


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!


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!”

 

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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.”


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!”


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 courtin' 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.”


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!”

 

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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!
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.


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.
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!

 

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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!


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!


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!

 

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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.


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!


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!”


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'.



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