I’d been hard up fer monny a week,
Mi way I cuddant see,
Fer trade an’ commerce wor as bad
As ivver they could be.
T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,
An’ t’combers wor quite sick,
Fer weeks they nivver pool’d a slip,
Ner t’weivers wave a pick.
An’ I belong’d ta t’latter lot,
An’ them wor t’war o’t’ two,
Fer I’d nine pair o’ jaws i’ t’haase,
An nowt for ’em ta do.
T’owd wife at t’ time wor sick i’ bed,
An’ I’d a shockin’ cowd,
Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,
Wor nobbut three days owd.
Distracted to mi varry heart,
At sitch a bitter cup,
An’ lippenin’ ivvery day at com,
At summat wod turn up;
At last I started off wun neet,
To see what I could mak;
Determin’d I’d hev summat ta 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’ oppen street.
Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,
An’ I wor rare an’ fain,
Fer near it stood t’owd parsonage—
I cuddant be mistain.
So up I went ta t’ Wicket Gate,
Though sad I am ta say it,
Resolv’d to ax ’em for some breead,
Or else some brocken meit.
Bud just as I wor shackin’ it,
A form raase up before,
An’ sed “What does ta want, tha knave,
Shackin’ t’ Wicket Door?”