Lancashire Songs

EDWIN WAUGH.
London: Simpkin, Marshall, & Co., Paternoster Row. Manchester: A. Ireland & Co., Pall Mall. 1866.
CONTENTS .

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!
At th’ lung-length aw geet ’em 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 stockin’s an’ shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i’ my cheer, An’ aw rayley did feel rather hurt— Mon, aw’m one-ly when theaw art’nt theer.
“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 !
“God bless tho, my lass; aw’ll go whoam, An’ aw’ll kiss thee an’ th’ childer o’ 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.”

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 is not reet!
“Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo; Aw am not like mysel’; But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’ 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 e’en o’ Mary’s;— They taen my life away.