Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple,
They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl,
Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling,
Does the wee little factory girl.
They are bouncing about like a shuttle,
They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;
While their wee little mates they are doffing,
Preparing the spindles for more.
Them two little things they are t’thickest,
They help one another ’tis plain;
They try to be t’best and t’quickest,
The smiles o’ their master to gain.
And now from her ten hours’ labour,
Back to her cottage shoo shogs;
Aw hear by the tramping an’ singing,
’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.
And at night when shoo’s folded i’ slumber,
Shoo’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls:
Of all human toil under-rated,
’Tis our poor little factory girl’s.
Haworth Sharpness.
Says a wag to a porter i’ Haworth one day,
“Yahr not ower sharp ye drones o’t’railway,
For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,
But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid ye begoff.”
The porter replied, “I vary mitch daht it,
But I’ll give a quart to hear all about it;
For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’snicket,
Baht tipping to t’porter thy pass or thy ticket.”
“Tha’ll write up to Derby an’ then tha’ll deceive me”;
“I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me”:
“Then aght wi thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,
For I’ve walk’d it on foot, by t’Cross Roads an’ t’ Bocking.”