Dialect poetry, English -- England -- Lancashire; English poetry -- 19th century
Transcriber's Notes:
Underscores "_" before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
in the original text.
Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
Antiquated spellings or ancient words have been preserved.
Typographical errors have been silently corrected but other variations
in spelling and punctuation remain unaltered.
LANCASHIRE SONGS.
[Illustration: LANCASHIRE SONGS.]
BY EDWIN WAUGH.
_London: Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., Paternoster Row._
_Manchester: A. Ireland & Co., Pall Mall._
1866.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
_Page._
Come whoam to thi childer an’ me 7
What ails thee, my son Robin? 10
God bless these poor folk! 12
Come, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine 15
Chirrup 19
The dule’s i’ this bonnet o’ mine 22
Tickle times 24
Jamie’s frolic 27
Owd Pinder 31
Come, Jamie, let’s undo thi shoon 33
Th’ goblin parson 35
While takin’ a wift o’ my pipe 38
God bless thi silver yure! 41
Margit’s comin’ 44
Eawr folk 47
Th’ sweetheart gate 50
Gentle Jone 52
Neet-fo’ 55
Aw’ve worn my bits o’ shoon away 58
Yesterneet 60
Bonny Nan 63
A lift on the way 66
Tum Rindle 69
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN’ ME.
Aw’ve just mended th’ fire wi’ a cob;
Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon;
There’s some nice bacon collops o’th hob,
An’ a quart o’ ale-posset i’th oon;
Aw’ve brought thi top cwot, doesto know,
For th’ rain’s comin’ deawn very dree;
An’ th’ har’stone’s as white as new snow;
Come whoam to thi childer an’ me.
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’.
An’ Dick, too, aw’d sich wark wi’ him,
Afore aw could get him up stairs;
Thae towd him thae’d bring him a drum,
He said, when he’re sayin’ his prayers;
Then he look’d i’ my face, an’ he said,
“Has th’ boggarts taen houd o’ my dad?”
An’ he cried whol his e’en were quite red;—
He likes thee some weel, does yon lad!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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