Whoe’er despise thee, let them know
The time may come when they may go
To some fish wife, and beg to know
If they can buy
The friendship o’ their vanquished foe,
We weeping eye.
To me nought could be better fun,
Than see a duke or noble don,
Or lord, or peer, or gentleman,
In search o’ thee:
And they were bidden to move on,
Or go t’at sea.
Yet I will sing thy praise, wee fish;
To me thou art a dainty dish;
For thee, ’tis true, we often wish,
My little bloater;
Either salted, cured, or shining fresh
Fra yon great water.
If through thy pedigree we peep,
Philosophy from thee can keep,
To me I need not study deep,
There’s nothing foreign;
For aw like thee, am sold too cheap,
My little herring.
Our Poor Little Factory Girls.
They are up in the morning right early,
They are up sometimes afore leet;
Aw hear their clogs they are clamping,
As t’ little things goes dahn the street.
They are off in the morning right early,
With their baskets o’ jock on their arms;
The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,
As they enter the mill in a swarm.
They are skarpring backward and forward,
Their ends to keep up if they can;
They are doing their utmost endeavours,
For fear o’ the frown o’ man.
Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple,
They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl,
Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling,
As the wee little factory girl.
They are bouncing abaht like a shuttle,
They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;
While their wee little mates they are doffing,
Preparing the spindles for more.