Lancashire Songs. Edwin Waugh

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      God bless these poor folk that are strivin’ By means that are honest an’ true, For something to keep ’em alive in This world ’at we’re scramblin’ through; As th’ life ov a mon’s full o’ feightin’, A poor soul that wants to feight fair, Should never be grudged ov his heytin’, For th’ hardest o’th battle’s his share.

      Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.

      This world’s kin to trouble; i’th best on’t, There’s mony sad changes come reawnd; We wandern abeawt to find rest on’t, An’ th’ worm yammers for us i’th’ greawnd; May he that’ll wortch while he’s able, Be never long hungry nor dry; An’ th’ childer ’at sit at his table— God bless’ em wi’ plenty, say I.

      Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.

      An’ he that can feel it a pleasur’ To leeten misfortin an’ pain— May his pantry be olez full measur’, To cut at, and come to again; May God bless his cup and his cupbort, A theawsan for one that he gives; An’ his heart be a bumper o’ comfort, To th’ very last minute he lives!

      Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.

      An’ he that scorns ale to his victual, Is welcome to let it alone; There’s some can be wise with a little, An’ some that are foolish wi’ noan; An’ some are so quare i’ their natur’ That nought wi’ their stomachs agree; But, he that would liefer drink wayter, Shall never be stinted by me.

      Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.

      One likes to see hearty folk wortchin’, An’ weary folk havin’ a rest; One likes to yer poor women singin’ To th’ little things laid o’ their breast; Good cooks are my favourite doctors; Good livers my parsons shall be; An’ ony poor craytur ’at’s clemmin, May come have a meawthful wi’ me.

      Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.

      Owd Time—he’s a troublesome codger— Keeps nudgin’ us on to decay, An’ whispers, “Yo’re nobbut a lodger: Get ready for goin’ away;” Then let’s ha’ no skulkin’ nor sniv’lin’, Whatever misfortins befo’, God bless him that fends for his livin’, An’ houds up his yed through it o’!

      Chorus.—As th’ life ov a mon.

COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE.

       Table of Contents

      Come, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine, An’ lilt away wi’ me; An’ dry that little drop o’ brine, Fro’ th’ corner o’ thi e’e; Th’ mornin’ dew i’th’ heather-bell’s A bonny gem o’ weet; That tear a different story tells— It pains my heart to see’t.

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      No lordly ho’ o’th’ country-side’s So welcome to my view, As th’ little cottage where abides My sweetheart, kind an’ true; But, there’s a nook beside yon spring, An’ iv thae’ll share’t wi’ me; Aw’ll buy tho th’ prattist gowden ring That ever theaw did see!

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      My feyther’s gan mo forty peawnd, I’ silver an’ i’ gowd; An’ a bonny bit o’ garden greawnd, O’th’ mornin’ side o’th’ fowd; An’ a honsome bible, clen an’ new, To read for days to come;— There’s leaves for writin’ names in, too, Like th’ owd un at’s awhoam.

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      Eawr Jenny’s bin a-buyin’ in, An’ every day hoo brings Knives an’ forks, an’ pots; or irons For smoothin’ caps an’ things; My gronny’s sent a chist o’ drawers, Sunday clooas to keep; An’ little Fanny’s bought a glass For thee an’ me to peep.

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch; Eawr Jem a load o’ coals; Eawr Charlie’s bought some pickters, an’ He’s hanged ’em upo’ th’ woles; Owd Posy’s white-weshed th’ cottage through; Eawr Matty’s made it sweet; An Jack’s gan mo his Jarman flute, To play by th’ fire at neet!

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      There’s cups an’ saucers; porritch-pons, An’ tables, greyt an’ smo’; There’s brushes, mugs, an’ ladin-cans; An eight days’ clock an’ o’; There’s a cheer for thee, an’ one for me, An’ one i’ every nook; Thi mother’s has a cushion on’t— It’s th’ nicest cheer i’th’ rook.

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      My mother’s gan me th’ four-post bed, Wi’ curtains to’t an’ o’; An’ pillows, sheets, an’ bowsters, too, As white as driven snow; It isn’t stuffed wi’ fither-deawn; But th’ flocks are clen an’ new; Hoo says there’s daycent folk i’th’ teawn That’s made a warse un do.

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

      Aw peeped into my cot last neet; It made me hutchin’ fain: A bonny fire were winkin’ breet I’ every window-pane; Aw marlocked upo’ th’ white hearth-stone, An’ drummed o’th’ kettle lid, An’ sung, “My neest is snug an’ sweet, Aw’ll go and fotch my brid!”

      So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.