Edwin Waugh
Lancashire Songs
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066167332
Table of Contents
COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN’ ME.
COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE.
THE DULE’S I’ THIS BONNET O’ MINE.
COME, JAMIE, LET’S UNDO THI SHOON.
WHILE TAKIN’ A WIFT O’ MY PIPE.
AW’VE WORN MY BITS O’ SHOON AWAY.
COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN’ ME.
Aw’ve just mended th’ fire wi’ a cob;
Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon; There’s some nice bacon collops o’th hob, An’ a quart o’ ale-posset i’th oon; Aw’ve brought thi top cwot, doesto know, For th’ rain’s comin’ deawn very dree; An’ th’ har’stone’s as white as new snow; Come whoam to thi childer an’ me.
When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried ’cose her feyther weren’t theer; So aw kiss’d th’ little thing, an’ aw said Thae’d bring her a ribbin fro’ th’ fair; An’ aw gav her her doll, an’ some rags, An’ a nice little white cotton bo’; An’ aw kiss’d her again; but hoo said At hoo wanted to kiss thee an’ o’.
An’ Dick, too, aw’d sich wark wi’ him, Afore aw could get him up stairs; Thae towd him thae’d bring him a drum, He said, when he’re sayin’ his prayers; Then he look’d i’ my face, an’ he said, “Has th’ boggarts taen houd o’ my dad?” An’ he cried whol his e’en were quite red;— He likes thee some weel, does yon lad!
At th’ lung-length aw geet ’em laid still; An’ aw hearken’t folks’ feet at went by; So aw iron’t o’ my clooas reet weel, An’ aw hanged ’em o’th maiden to dry; When aw’d mended thi stockin’s an’ shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i’ my cheer, An’ aw rayley did feel rather hurt— Mon, aw’m one-ly when theaw art’nt theer.
“Aw’ve a drum and a trumpet for Dick; Aw’ve a yard o’ blue ribbin for Sal; Aw’ve a book full o’ babs; an’ a stick, An’ some bacco an’ pipes for mysel; Aw’ve brought thee some coffee an’ tay— Iv thae’ll feel i’ my pocket, thae’ll see; An’ aw’ve bought tho a new cap to-day— But aw olez bring summat for thee!
“God bless tho, my lass; aw’ll go whoam, An’ aw’ll kiss thee an’ th’ childer o’ reawnd; Thae knows, at wheerever aw roam, Aw’m fain to get back to th’ owd greawnd; Aw can do wi’ a crack o’er a glass; Aw can do wi’ a bit ov a spree; But aw’ve no gradely comfort, my lass, Except wi’ yon childer and thee.”
WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN?
What ails thee, my son Robin? My heart is sore for thee; Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner, An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e; Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome, An’ looks so pale at morn; God bless tho, lad, aw’m soory To see tho so forlorn.
Thi fuutstep’s sadly awter’t— Aw used to know it weel; Neaw, arto fairy-strucken; Or, arto gradely ill? Or, hasto bin wi’ th’ witches I’th’ cloof, at deep o’th’ neet? Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo, For summat is not reet!
“Neaw, mother, dunnot fret yo; Aw am not like mysel’; But, ’tis not lung o’th’ feeorin’ That han to do wi’th deil; There’s nought at thus could daunt mo, I’th’ cloof, by neet nor day;— It’s yon blue e’en o’ Mary’s;— They taen my life away.
“Aw deawt aw’ve done wi comfort To th’ day that aw mun dee; For th’ place hoo sets her fuut on, It’s fairy greawnd to me; But oh, it’s useless speighkin’, Aw connut ston her pride; An’ when a true heart’s breighkin It’s very hard to bide!”
Neaw God be wi’ tho, Robin;