I’d been hard up fer mony a week,
My way I cuddant see,
Fer trade an commerce wor as bad
As ivver they cud be.
T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,
An t’combers wor quite sick,
For weeks they niver pool’d a slip,
Ner t’weivers wave a pick.
An I belong’d to t’latter lot,
An them wor t’war o t’wo,
Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase,
An nowt for em ta do.
T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed,
An I’d a shocking coud,
Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,
Wor nobbut three days oud.
Distracted to my vary heart,
At sitch a bitter cup,
An lippening ivvery day at com,
At summat wod turn up.
At t’last I started off wun neet,
To see what I could mak;
Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit,
Or else I’d noan go back.
Through t’Skantraps an be t’ Bracken Benk,
I tuke wi all mi meet;
Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin,
Reight into t’oppan street.
Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,
An I wor rare an fain,
Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage—
I cuddant be mistain.
So up I went to t’Wicket Gate,
Though sad I am to say it,
Resolv’d to ax em for some breead,
Or else some brocken meit.
Bud just as I wor shacking it,
A form raise up afore,
An sed “What dus ta want, tha knave,
Shacking t’ Wicket Door?”