FRETTIN'.
(From "Phases of Distress—Lancashire Rhymes.")
BY JOSEPH RAMSBOTTOM.
Fro' heawrs to days—a dhreary length—
Fro' days to weeks one idle stons,
An' slowly sinks fro' pride an' strength
To weeny heart an' wakely honds;
An' still one hopes, an' ever tries
To think 'at better days mun come;
Bo' th' sun may set, an' th' sun may rise,—
No sthreak o' leet one finds a-whoam.
Aw want to see thoose days again,
When folk can win whate'er they need;
O God! to think 'at wortchin' men
Should be poor things to pet an' feed!
There's some to th' Bastile han to goo,
To live o'th rates they'n help'd to pay;
An' some get "dow" [{3}] to help 'em through;
An' some are taen or sent away.
What is there here, 'at one should live,
Or wish to live, weigh'd deawn wi' grief,
Through weary weeks an' months, 'at give
Not one short heawr o' sweet relief?
A sudden plunge, a little blow,
Would end at once mi' care an' pain!
An' why noa do't?—for weel aw know
Aw's lose bo' ills, if nowt aw gain.
An' why noa do't? It ill 'ud tell
O' thoose wur laft beheend, aw fear;
It's wring, at fust, to kill mysel',
It's wring to lyev mi childer here.
One's like to tak' some thowt for them—
Some sort o' comfort one should give;
So one mun bide, an' starve, an' clem,
An' pine, an' mope, an' fret, an' live.
TH' SHURAT WEAVER'S SONG. [{4}]
BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK.
TUNE—"Rory O'More."