Nah—some made fun, an’ some did run,
Owd women they wor singin’—
“Do you ken the Moofin Man,”—
An’ others they wor swingin’.
I’ sooth ’twor grand to see this band,
Assembled all together;
Bud sad to say, that varry day
Turn’d aght some shockin’ weather.
Bud war ner t’rain, aw mun explain,
’At caus’d a girt disaster,
All but one sort o’ breead ran short—
It wor no fault o’ t’maister.
O, Gormanton! thy breead an’ bun,
An’ judgment it wor scanty;
Oh, what a shame, an’ what a name,
For not providing plenty!
Oh, silly clown! thah might hev knawn,
To eyt each one wor able;
The country air did mak some swear
They cud ommost eyt a table.
The atmosphere, no longer clear,
The clouds are black an’ stormy;
Then all but one away did run,
Like some desertin’ army.
On—on! they go! as if some foe
Wor chargin’ at the lot!
If they got there, they didn’t care
A fig for poor Will Scott!
Poor lame owd Will remains theer still,
His crutches hes to fetch him;
But he’s seen t’time, when in his prime,
’At nobody theer cud catch him.
Like some fast steed wi’ all its speed,
All seem’d as they wor flyin’;
To escape the rain, an’ catch the train,
Both owd and young wor tryin’.
One Mat o’ Wills, abaght Crosshills,
He heeard a fearful hummin’,
He said ta t’wife, “Upon mi life,
Aw think the French are comin’!