Lancashire Sketches / Third Edition

by Edwin Waugh

CHAPTER III.

A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll: masters, spread yourselves.

Midsummer Night's Dream.

The "million-fingered" rain was tapping at the kitchen window as I sat by "Owd England's" bright hearthstone one forenoon, hearkening to the wind that moaned outside like a thing in pain. I could hear by a subdued thump that "Lizzy" was churning in the dairy; and I knew, by the smell of fresh bread which came from a spacious out-kitchen, that "Granny" was baking. "Little Tom," the cow lad, had started early with the cart to Poulton for coals, making knots on his whiplash as he went along, to help his memory, which was crowded with orders to call at one place for meal, at another for mutton, and at others for physic, and snuff, and such like oddments, wanted by the neighbours. "Owd England" had gone to the seaside, with his staff, and his leather strap, to fetch the daily "burn" of firewood; and—to see what he could see;—for every tide brought something. One day he hauled a barrel of Stockholm tar from the water; on another, part of the cabin furniture of an unfortunate steamer; and then a beam of pine was thrown ashore; in all of which the old man had a certain interest as "wreck-master." "Peg-leg," the fisherman, was mending a net; and lame Alice lay, as usual, wrapped up, and in shadow, on the couch under the window; with her pale face, and a nose "as sharp as a pen," turned to the ceiling; while Tib, with her soft legs folded under, lay basking luxuriously in the fire-shine, dreaming of milk and of mice. The old clock ticked audibly in the corner, and a pin-drop silence prevailed in the room. "That's a fine cat," said I. "Aye," replied old Alice, "isn't it a varra fine cat? It's mother to that as Missis Alston hes. It cam fra Lunnon, an' it's worth a deeal o' money, is that cat. The varra day as you cam, it weshed it face an' sneez't twice,—it dud, for sewer. Missis Eastwood wor gettin' dinner ready at th' time, an' hoo said, 'We'st hev a stranger fra some quarter this day, mind i' we hevn't;' an' directly after, yo cam walkin' into th' heawse, I tell yo, just as nowt were. I offens think it's queer; bod I've sin cats as good as ony almanac for tellin' th' weather, an sich like." "Will it scrat," said I, stroking "Tib" as she stretched and yawned in my face. "Well," replied Alice, "it's like everything else for that; it just depends what you do at it. Bod I can onser for one thing—it'll not scrat as ill as 'Th' Red Cat' at Bispham does. I hev sin folk a bit mauled after playin' wi' that." "Aye, an' so hev I, too," said old "Peg-leg." "I ca'd theer tother neet, an', by the hectum, heaw they wor gooin' on, to be sewer. I crope into a corner wi' my gill, there wor sich liltin' agate; an', ye knaw, a mon wi' one leg made o' wood and tother full o' rheumatic pains is nowt mich at it. Beside, I've ten a likin' to quietness,—one does, ye knaw, Alice, as they getten owd. I geet aside ov a mon as wor tellin' abeawt Jem Duck'orth, o' Preston, sellin' his midden. Ye'll hev heeard o' that, Alice?" "Nay, I don't know as I hev, Billy; what is it? I dud hear at once th' baillies were in his heawse, an' they agreed to go away if he'd find 'em a good bondsman. So Jem towd 'em that he had a varra respectable old friend i'th next room that he thowt would be bund wi him to ony amount; if they'd let him fotch him. So they advised him to bring his bond in at once, ah' hev it sattle't baat ony bother—for th' baillies wor owd friends o' Jem's, ye knaw; an' they didn't want to be hard with him. Well, what does Jem do, bod go an' fotch a great brown bear as he'd hed mony a year, an' turns it into th' place where th' baillies were, baat muzzle; and says, 'Gentlemen, that's my bondsman.' Bod, never ye mind if th' baillies didn't go through that window, moor sharper.... I've heard mony a queer tale o' Jem. What's this abaat th' midden, Billy?" "Well, ye knaw, Jem wor a good-tempered mon, but full o' quare tricks. He wor varra strong, an' a noted feighter—th' cock o'th clod in his day, for that. An' he kept a deeal o' horses that he leet aat for hire. Well, he'd once gether't a good midden together fra th' stables, an' farmers began o' comin' abaat th' yard to look at it; so one on 'em says, 'Jem, what'll to tak for th' midden?' 'Five paand,' says Jem. 'Well, I'll gi' tho five paand,' says the farmer. So he ped him, an' said he'd send th' carts in a day or two. In a bit, another comes an' axes th' price o'th' midden. Jem stack to owd tale, an' said 'Five paand, an' cheeop too;' an' th' farmer gev him th' brass at once. 'Sowd again,' says Jem, 'an' th' money drawn.' Well, at th' end of o', it happen't at both sets o' carts cam for th' midden o'th same day, an' there were the devil's delight agate i'th yard between 'em. At last, they agreed to send for Jem; so he cam wi' a face as innocent as a flea, an' wanted to know whatever were to do. 'Didn't I buy this midden, Jem?' said one. 'Yigh, sure, thae did,' says Jem. 'Well, an' didn't I pay tho for't at th' same time?' 'Sure, thae did, owd lad—reet enough,' says Jem. 'Well, but,' says tother, 'didn't I buy it on tho?' 'Yigh, thae did,' says Jem, 'an' thae ped me for't, too, honourably, like a mon,—an' I'll tak very good care that nob'dy but yo two hes it.' That wor rayther awkert, ye knaw, an' I know not heaw they'd end it,—for Jem wor bad to manage. They wor tellin' it at th' 'Red Cat' tother neet, bod I could hardly hear for th' gam at wor afoot. Lor bless you! There wor a gentleman fra Fleetwood tryin' to donce i'th middle o'th floor; an' owd Jack Backh'us stood i' one corner, wi' his yure ower his face, starin' like wild, an' recitin' abaat th' Battle o' Waterloo. Three chaps sit upo' th' sofa as hed been ower Wyre, o' day, an' they'd etten so mich snig-pie at th' 'Shard,' that it hed made 'em say-sick, so Tom Poole were mixin' 'em stuff to cure it. Another were seawnd asleep on a cheer, an' little 'Twinkle,' fra Poulton, doncin' abeawt, challengin' him to feight. An' it wor welly as bad eawtside, for there wor a trap coom up wi' a lot o' trippers as hed bin to Cleveless, an' 'Bugle Bob' upo' th' box, playin' 'Rule Britannia.' Bod I left when th' bevel-men fra Rossall began o' comin' in, singin' 'Said Dick unto Tom,' for I felt my yed givin' way under it."

The song, "Said Dick unto Tom," alluded to by the old man, is a rude fishing ditty, never printed before, and hardly known out of the Fylde, to which it relates. I wrote it down from the recitation of a friend near Norbreck. There is not much in the words except a quiet, natural tone, with one or two graphic strokes, which breathe the spirit of the country it originated from. The tune is a quaint air, which I never heard before. The song was written some time ago, by William Garlick, a poor man, and a weaver of "pow-davy," a kind of sail-cloth. These are the words:—

Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido;
Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
Aw could like to go a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra soon.
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido.

Then up i'th mornin Dick dud rise,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
Then up i'th mornin' Dick dud rise,
An' to Tom's door like leetnin' flies.
To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart,
To go a-gettin' dew-worms afore they start.
Wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat,
Egad, says little Tom, there's noan so many aat.
To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond,
Like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond.
To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place,
Th' childer were so freeten't 'at they dorsn't show their face.
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
An' when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob,
Til little Tommy towd 'em they were bod baan to bob.
To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o':
Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Warton, they wor afore the tide,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
An' when they got to Warton, they wor afore the tide,
They jumped into a boat, an' away they both did ride.
To my heigho, wi' their bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

Soon after dinner the clouds broke, and it was fine again. I went to the sea-side; and, after pacing to and fro by the waves a while, I struck out towards Rossall, through the by-paths of a wilderness of sand and tall grass, called "Starrins," that run along the edge of the cliffs. I had scarcely gone a mile before "the rattlin' showers drave on the blast" again, and the sky was all thick gloom. Dripping wet, I hurried towards the hotel at Cleveless, and, darting in, got planted in a snug armchair by the parlour fire, watching the storm that swept furiously aslant the window, and splashed upon the road in front. Three other persons were in the room, one a workman from Rossall College, hard by, and the other commercial men on their route to Fleetwood. It is wonderful how much rough weather enhances the beauty of the inside of a house. "Better a wee bush than nae bield." Well, we were just getting into talk, when the door opened, and a humorous face looked in. It was a bright-eyed middle-aged man, shining all over with wet; a blue woollen apron was twisted round his waist, and he had a basket on his arm. Leaning against one door-cheek, and sticking a knife into the other, he said, "By gobs, didn't I get a fine peltin' out o' that!... Do yees want any oysters, gentlemen? The shells is small," said he, stepping forward, "but they're chock full o' the finest fish in the world. Divul a aiqual thim oysters has in the wide ocean; mind, I'm tellin' ye.... Taste that!"—"Hollo, Dennis!" said one of the company, "how is it you aren't in Fleetwood?"—"Well, because I'm here, I suppose," said Dennis. "Bedad, ye can't expect a man to be in two places at once—barrin' he was a burd. Maybe it's good fortune sent me here to meet wid a few rale gintlemin. Sorra a one I met on the way, but rain powrin' down in lashins till the oysters in my basket began to think they were in the say again."—"Well, Dennis," said the traveller, "I'll have a score if you'll tell us about the Irishman in the cook's shop.—Ye will? Then divul recave the toe I'll stir till ye get both.... Will you take another score, sir,—till I tell the tale? It's little chance ye'll have o' meetin' thim oysters agin—for they're gettin' scarce.... An' now for the tale," said he, with his knife and his tongue going together. "It was a man from Nenagh, in Tipperary—he was a kind o' ganger on the railway; an' he wint to a cook-shop in a teawn not far from this, an' says he to the missis o' the heawse, 'A basin o' pay-soup, ma'am, plaze,' says he,—for, mind ye, an Irishman's natterally polite till he's vext, an' thin he's as fiery as Julius Sayzur. Well, whin she brought the soup, Paddy tuk a taste mighty sly; an', turnin' reawnd, says he—just for spooart, mind—says he, 'Bedad, ma'am, your soup tastes mighty strong o' the water.' Well, av coorse, the woman was vext all out, an' she up an' tould him he didn't understand good aitin', an' he might lave the soup for thim that had bin better eddicated. But bowld Paddy went on witheawt losin' a stroke o' the spoon; an'—purtindin' not to hear her—says he, 'I'll go bail I'll make as good broth as thim wud a penny candle an' a trifle o' pepper.' Well, by gobs, this riz the poor woman's dander to the full hoight, an' she made right at him wid her fist, an' swore by this an' by that, if he didn't lave the heawse she'd knock him into the boiler. But Paddy was nigh finishin' his soup, an' he made up his mind to take the last word; an' says he, 'Bi the powers! that'll be the best bit o' mate ever went into your pan, ma'am;' an' wi' that, he burst into a laugh, an' the philanderin' rogue up an' towld her how he said it all for divarshun; an' divul a better soup he tasted in his life. Well, she changed her tune, like a child. Bedad, it was like playin' a flute, or somethin'. An', mind ye, there's nothin' like an Irishman for gettin' the right music out of a woman—all the world over. So my tale's inded, an' I'd like to see the bottom o' my basket. Ye may as well brake me, gintlemen. There's not more nor five score. Take the lot; an' let me go home; for I've a long step to the fore, an' I'm wet to the bone; an' the roads is bad after dark."

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