Thrum. Oh, aw see.... Well, eawr Matty's just the very same; nobbut her nose has rayther a sharper poynt to't nor yor wife's.... Yo see'n aw thought it wur time to sell th' dog, when aw had to ax owd Thunge to lend mo a bite ov his moufin whol aw'd deawn't my piece. But aw'll go fur on. So good day to yo.... Come, Snap, owd lad; aw'll find thee a good shop, or else aw'll sweat.
Chatting about such things as these, we came up to a plain whitewashed hall-house, standing a little off the road, called "Newcroft." This was pointed out to me as the residence of a gentleman related to the famous "Whitworth doctors." The place looked neat and homely, and had orderly grounds and gardens about, but there was nothing remarkable in its general appearance which would have stopt me, but for the interesting fact just mentioned. It brought to my mind many a racy story connected with that worthy old family of country doctors, and their quaint independent way of life in the little moorland village of Whitworth, near "Fairies Chapel," the scene of one of those "Lancashire Traditions" which Mr. John Roby wrote about. I found afterwards that this "Newcroft" was, in old time, the homestead of the great Cheshire family of Warburton, of which family R. E. E. Warburton, Esq., of Arley Hall, is the present representative. I understand that the foundations of the old hall are incorporated with the present building. There are very few trees about the place now; and these afford neither shade to the house nor much ornament to the scene. The name of Warburton is still common about here, both among the living, and on the gravestones of Flixton churchyard. The saying, "Aw'll tear tho limb fro Warbu'ton," is common all over Lancashire as well as Cheshire. One side of its meaning is evident enough, but its allusions used to puzzle me. I find that it has its origin in the curiously-involved relations of the two Cheshire rectories of Lymm and Warburton, and in some futile effort which was once made to separate them. Written this way, "I'll tear tho limb (Lymm) fro Warbu'ton (Warburton)," the saying explains itself better. There is a ballad in Dr. Latham's work on "The English Language," in which the present "Squire ov Arley Ha'" is mentioned in a characteristic way. It is given in that work as a specimen of the Cheshire dialect. It certainly is the raciest modern ballad of its kind that I know of. The breeze of nature has played in the heart of the writer, whoever he be. Its allusions and language have so much affinity with the Lancashire side of the water, that I think the reader will forgive me for introducing it, that he may judge of it for himself. The title is "Farmer Dobbin; or, a Day wi' the Cheshire Fox Dogs." Here it is; and I fancy that a man with any blood in his body will hunt as he reads it:—
Theer's slutch upo thi coat, mon, theer's blood upo thi chin,
It's welly toim for milkin, now where ever 'ast ee bin;
Oiv bin to see the gentlefolks o' Cheshire roid a run,
Owd wench! oiv bin a hunting, an oiv seen some rattling fun.
Th' owd mare was in the smithy when the huntsman he trots through,
Black Bill agate o' 'ammerin the last nail in her shoe:
The cuvver laid so wheam like, and so jovial fine the day,
Says I, "Owd mare, we'll tak a fling, an' see 'em go away."
When up, and oi'd got shut ov aw the hackney pads an' traps,
Orse dealers and orse jockey lads, and such loike swaggering chaps,
Then what a power o' gentlefolk did oi set eyes upon!
A-reining in their hunters, aw blood orses every one!
They'd aw got bookskin leathers on, a fitten 'em so toight,
As roind an plump as turmits be, an just about as whoite:
Their spurs were made o' silver, and their buttons made o' brass,
Their coats wur red as carrots, an their collars green as grass.
A varment looking gemman on a woiry tit I seed,
An' another close beside him sittin noble on his steed;
They ca' them both owd codgers, but as fresh as paint they look,
John Glegg, Esquoir, o' Withington, an bowd Sir Richard Brooke.
I seed Squoir Geffrey Shakerly, the best un o' that breed,
His smoiling face tould plainly how the sport wi' him agreed;
I seed the Arl o' Grosvenor, a loikely lad to roid,
Aw seed a soight worth aw the rest, his farrently young broid.
Sir Umferry de Trafford, an the Squoir ov Arley Haw
His pockets full o' rigmarole, a rhoimin' on 'em aw;
Two members for the cointy, both aloike ca'd Egerton,
Squoir Henry Brooks and Tummus Brooks, they'd aw green collars on.
Eh! what a mon be Dixon John, ov Astle Haw, Esquoir,
You wudna foind, an mezzur him, his marrow in the shoir!
Squoir Wilbraham o' the forest, death and danger he defois
When his coat he toightly buttened up, an shut up both his oies.