Lancashire Sketches / Third Edition

by Edwin Waugh

The song, "Said Dick unto Tom," alluded to by the old man, is a rude fishing ditty, never printed before, and hardly known out of the Fylde, to which it relates. I wrote it down from the recitation of a friend near Norbreck. There is not much in the words except a quiet, natural tone, with one or two graphic strokes, which breathe the spirit of the country it originated from. The tune is a quaint air, which I never heard before. The song was written some time ago, by William Garlick, a poor man, and a weaver of "pow-davy," a kind of sail-cloth. These are the words:—

Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido;
Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
Aw could like to go a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra soon.
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, fol de diddle ido.

Then up i'th mornin Dick dud rise,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
Then up i'th mornin' Dick dud rise,
An' to Tom's door like leetnin' flies.
To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
So, up Tom jumped, an' deawn th' stairs dart,
To go a-gettin' dew-worms afore they start.
Wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
Then they hunted, an' rooted, an' sceched abaat,
Egad, says little Tom, there's noan so many aat.
To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
So, off they set wi' th' bob-rods i' hond,
Like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond.
To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
An' when they gat to Kellamoor, that little country place,
Th' childer were so freeten't 'at they dorsn't show their face.
To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
An' when they gat to Brynin', folk thought there'd bin a mob,
Til little Tommy towd 'em they were bod baan to bob.
To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o':
Loddle iddle, &c.

An' when they gat to Warton, they wor afore the tide,
Loddle iddle, &c.;
An' when they got to Warton, they wor afore the tide,
They jumped into a boat, an' away they both did ride.
To my heigho, wi' their bob-rods an' o';
Loddle iddle, &c.

Soon after dinner the clouds broke, and it was fine again. I went to the sea-side; and, after pacing to and fro by the waves a while, I struck out towards Rossall, through the by-paths of a wilderness of sand and tall grass, called "Starrins," that run along the edge of the cliffs. I had scarcely gone a mile before "the rattlin' showers drave on the blast" again, and the sky was all thick gloom. Dripping wet, I hurried towards the hotel at Cleveless, and, darting in, got planted in a snug armchair by the parlour fire, watching the storm that swept furiously aslant the window, and splashed upon the road in front. Three other persons were in the room, one a workman from Rossall College, hard by, and the other commercial men on their route to Fleetwood. It is wonderful how much rough weather enhances the beauty of the inside of a house. "Better a wee bush than nae bield." Well, we were just getting into talk, when the door opened, and a humorous face looked in. It was a bright-eyed middle-aged man, shining all over with wet; a blue woollen apron was twisted round his waist, and he had a basket on his arm. Leaning against one door-cheek, and sticking a knife into the other, he said, "By gobs, didn't I get a fine peltin' out o' that!... Do yees want any oysters, gentlemen? The shells is small," said he, stepping forward, "but they're chock full o' the finest fish in the world. Divul a aiqual thim oysters has in the wide ocean; mind, I'm tellin' ye.... Taste that!"—"Hollo, Dennis!" said one of the company, "how is it you aren't in Fleetwood?"—"Well, because I'm here, I suppose," said Dennis. "Bedad, ye can't expect a man to be in two places at once—barrin' he was a burd. Maybe it's good fortune sent me here to meet wid a few rale gintlemin. Sorra a one I met on the way, but rain powrin' down in lashins till the oysters in my basket began to think they were in the say again."—"Well, Dennis," said the traveller, "I'll have a score if you'll tell us about the Irishman in the cook's shop.—Ye will? Then divul recave the toe I'll stir till ye get both.... Will you take another score, sir,—till I tell the tale? It's little chance ye'll have o' meetin' thim oysters agin—for they're gettin' scarce.... An' now for the tale," said he, with his knife and his tongue going together. "It was a man from Nenagh, in Tipperary—he was a kind o' ganger on the railway; an' he wint to a cook-shop in a teawn not far from this, an' says he to the missis o' the heawse, 'A basin o' pay-soup, ma'am, plaze,' says he,—for, mind ye, an Irishman's natterally polite till he's vext, an' thin he's as fiery as Julius Sayzur. Well, whin she brought the soup, Paddy tuk a taste mighty sly; an', turnin' reawnd, says he—just for spooart, mind—says he, 'Bedad, ma'am, your soup tastes mighty strong o' the water.' Well, av coorse, the woman was vext all out, an' she up an' tould him he didn't understand good aitin', an' he might lave the soup for thim that had bin better eddicated. But bowld Paddy went on witheawt losin' a stroke o' the spoon; an'—purtindin' not to hear her—says he, 'I'll go bail I'll make as good broth as thim wud a penny candle an' a trifle o' pepper.' Well, by gobs, this riz the poor woman's dander to the full hoight, an' she made right at him wid her fist, an' swore by this an' by that, if he didn't lave the heawse she'd knock him into the boiler. But Paddy was nigh finishin' his soup, an' he made up his mind to take the last word; an' says he, 'Bi the powers! that'll be the best bit o' mate ever went into your pan, ma'am;' an' wi' that, he burst into a laugh, an' the philanderin' rogue up an' towld her how he said it all for divarshun; an' divul a better soup he tasted in his life. Well, she changed her tune, like a child. Bedad, it was like playin' a flute, or somethin'. An', mind ye, there's nothin' like an Irishman for gettin' the right music out of a woman—all the world over. So my tale's inded, an' I'd like to see the bottom o' my basket. Ye may as well brake me, gintlemen. There's not more nor five score. Take the lot; an' let me go home; for I've a long step to the fore, an' I'm wet to the bone; an' the roads is bad after dark."