Edwin Waugh: Lancashire Songs (2)

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TH' wynt wur still i'th shade o'th hill,
    An' stars began o' glowin'
I'th' fadin' leet, one summer neet,
    When th' dew wur softly foin';
Wi' weary shanks, by primrose banks,
    Where rindlin' weet wur shinin',
Aw whistle't careless, wanderin' slow,
    Toward my cot inclinin'.

Through th' woodlan' green aw tooted keen,
    For th' little window winkin'; ―
Th' stars may shine, they're noan as fine
    As Matty's candle blinkin';
O'er th' rosy hedge aw went to th' ridge
    O'th lonesome-shaded plantin',
To get another blink o' th' leet
    That set my heart a-pantin'.

Then deawn bi'th well i'th fairy-dell,
    Wi' trees aboon it knittin',
Where, near an' fur, ther nowt astur
    But bats i'th eawl-leet flittin';
An' fearfo' seawnds that rustle't reawnd
    Wi' mony a goblin-twitter,
As swarmin' dark to flaysome wark
    They flew wi' hellish titter.

There, reet anent aw geet a glent
    At brought a shiver o'er mo,
For, fair i'th track their summat black
    Coom creepin' on afore mo;
It wur not clear, but it wur theer,—
    Wi' th' gloomy shadow blendin',
Neaw black an' slim, neaw grey an' grim,
    Wi' noather side nor endin'.

Cowd drops wur tremblin' o' my broo,
    As there aw stood belated; ―
Aw durstn't turn, nor durstn't goo,
    But shut my e'en, an' waited;
An' just as aw begun to pray,
    There coom fro' th' creepin' spectre
A weel known seawnd that said, "Well,
    'Twur nowt but th' village rector.

"Well, James," said he, "I'm fain to see
    Yo'r pew so weel attended;
But then, yo shouldn't fo' asleep
    Afore my sarmon's ended:
To dreawsy ears it's useless quite
    To scatter holy teychin':
Why don't yo bring a bit o' snuff,
    An, tak it while I'm preychin'."

"Well, well," said aw, "There's money a way
    O' keepin' e'en fro' closin';
A needle would keep th' body wake,
    An' th' soul met still be dozin';
But this receipt would set it reet,
    Iv th' mixture wur a warm un,—
Yo'm get some stingin' gospel-snuff,
    An' put it into th' sarmon."

He stare't like mad, but th' good owd lad
    Then grip't my hond, warm-hearted,
An' said, "You're reet, you're reet—good neet!"
    An' that wur heaw we parted.
It touched my heart, an' made it smart,
    He spoke so mild and pratty;
Aw blest him as he walked away,
    An' then went whoam to Matty.




WHILE takin' a wift o' my pipe tother neet,
    A thowt trickled into my pate,
That sulkin' becose everything isn't sweet,
    Is nought but a foolish consate;
Iv mon had bin made for a bit of a spree,
    An' th' world were a marlockin' schoo',
Wi' nought nobbut heytin', an'drinkin, an' glee,
    An' haliday gam to go through,
            He'd sicken afore
            His frolic were o'er,
    An' feel he'd bin born for a foo'.

Poor crayter, he's o' discontentment an' deawt,
    Whatever his fortin may be;
He's just like a chylt at goes cryin' abeawt,
    "Eawr Johnny's moor traycle nor me;"
One minute he's trouble't, next minute he's fain,
    An' then, they're so blended i' one,
It's hard to tell whether he's laughin' through pain,
    Or whether he's peawtin' for fun;—
            He stumbles, an' grumbles,
            He struggles, an' juggles,—
    He capers a bit,—an' he's gone.

It's wise to be humble i' prosperous ways,
    For trouble may chance to be nee;
It's wise for to struggle wi' sorrowful days
    Till sorrow breeds sensible glee;
He's rich that, contented wi' little, lives weel,
    An' nurses his little to moor;
He's weel off 'at's rich, iv he nobbut can feel
    He's brother to thoose that are poor;
            An' to him 'at does fair,
            Though his livin' be bare,
    Some comfort shall olez be sure.

We'n nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below,
    An' th' lungest is very soon spent;
There's summat aboon measur's cuts for us o',
    An' th' most on 'em nobbut a fent;
Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that,
    We'n make th' best o'th stuff till it's done,
An' when it leers eawt to get rivven a bit,
    Let's darn it as weel as we con;
            When th' order comes to us
            To doff these owd clooas,
    There'll surely be new uns to don.




JONE, lad, though thi hond's
    Like reawsty iron to feel,
There's very few i'th lond
    Aw like to gripe as weel.
Thae'll never dee i'th dumps
    Becose o' bein' poor,
Thae good owd king o' trumps,—
    God bless thi silver yure!

Poo up to th' side o'th hob,
    An' rest thi weary shanks,
An' dunnot fret thy nob
    Wi' fortin' an' her pranks;
These folk at's preawd an' rich
    May tremble at her freawn,
They'n further far nor sich
    As thee to tumble deawn.

Theaw never longs for wine,
    Nor dainties rich an' rare,
For sich a life as thine
    Can sweeten simple fare;
Contented wi' thi meal,
    Thae's wit enough to know
That daisies liven weel
    Where tulips connot grow.

An' though thi cloas are rough,
    An' gettin' very owd,
They'n onswer weel enough
    To keep thi limbs fro' th' cowd;
A foo would pine away
    I' such a suit as thine,
But, thaer't the stuff to may
    A fustian jacket fine.

A tattered clowt may lap
    A very noble prize;
A king may be, by hap,
    A beggar i' disguise.
When t'one has laft his feast,
    An' t'othier done his crust,
Then, which is which at last,—
    These little piles o' dust?

An' though shy share o' life,
    May seem a losin' game,
Thae's striven fair i'th strife,
    An' kept a daycent aim;
No meawse-nooks i' thi mind,
    No malice i' thi breast,
Thae's still bin true an' kind,
    An' trusted fate wi' th' rest.

Through trouble, toil, an' wrung,
    Thae's whistle's at thi wark,
An' wrostle't life so lung,
    Thi limbs are gettin stark
But, sich a heart as thine's
    A never-failin' friend;
It cheer's a mon's decline,
    An' keeps it sweet to th' end.

Thy banner's soon be furled,
    An' then they'n ha' to tell,
"He travell't th' dirty world,
    An' never soil't hissel'!"
An' when aw come to dee,
    An' death has ta'en his tow,
Aw hope to leet o' thee,—
    God bless thi snowy pow!



AIR—"Th' Rakes o' Mellor."

EH!  Sam, whatever doesto meeon;
Aw see thae'rt theer i'th nook again;
Where aw've a gill thae's nine or ten:
    Thae mun have heir't a fortin!
Aw wonder heaw a mon can sit
An' waste his bit o' wage an' wit:
If aw're thi wife aw'd make tho flit,
    Wi' little time to start in.

But, houd; yor Margate's up i'th teawn;
Aw yerd her ax for thee at th' Crown;
An', just meet neaw, aw scampers deawn;—
    It's true as aught i'th Bible!
Thae knows yor Margit weel ov owd;
Her tung—it makes mo fair go cowd
Sin' th' day hoo broke my nose i'th fowd
    Wi' th' edge o'th porritch thible.

It's ten to one hoo'll co' in here,
An' poo tho deawt o'th corner cheer;
So, sit fur back, where th' runnin's clear;
    Aw'll keep my e'en o'th window;
Thae'm mind to hits, an' when aw sheawt
Be limber-legged, an' lammas eawt;
An'—though hoo'll not believe, aw deawt,
    Aw'll swear aw never sin tho.

Aw'll bite my tung aw will, bith mon,
An' plug my ears up till hoo's gwon;
A grooin' tree could hardly ston
    A savage woman flytin';
Iv folk were nobbut o' i'th mind
To make their bits o' booses kind,
There'd be less wanderin' eawt to find
    A corner to be quiet in.

It's nearly three o'clock bith chime:
This ale o' Jem's is very prime;
Aw'll keawer mo deawn till baggin-time,
    An' have a reech o' bacco;
Aw guess thae's yerd 'at Clinker lad
An' Liltin' Jenny's getten wed;
An' Collop's gooin wrang i'th yed,—
    But that's not mich to crack o'.

There's news that chaps 'at wore a creawn,
Are gettin' powler't up an' deawn,
They're puncin' 'em fro teawn to teawn,
    Like foot-bo's in a pastur;
Yon Garibaldi's gan 'em silk;
Th' owd lad, he's fairly made 'em swilk;
An' neaw, they sen he's sellin' milk
    To raise new clooas for Ayster.

There's some are creepin' eawt o'th slutch,
An' some are gettin' deawn i'th doitch;
Bith mon, aw never yerd o' sich
    A world for change o' fortin!
They're gooin' groanin' eawt o'th seet,
They're comin' cryin' into th' seet;
But howd! aw yerd last Monday neet
    A tale abeawt a cwortin'.

Poo up! aw'll tell it iv aw con;—
Thae knows that bow-legged railway mon?—
But, heigh, owd lad! yor Margit's yon,—
    Hoo's comin' like a racer!—
Some foo' has put her upo' th' track;
Cut, Sam; hoo'll have us in a crack!
Aw said hoo'd come—let's run eawt th' back;
    Bith' mass, aw dar not face her!




EAWR Johnny gi's his mind to books;
    Eawr Abram studies plants,—
He caps the dule for moss an' ferns,
    An' grooin' polyants;
For aught abeawt mechanickin',
    Eawr Ned's the very lad;
My uncle Jamie roots i'th stars,
    Enough to drive him mad.

Eawr Alick keeps a badger's shop,
    An' teyches Sunday schoo';
Eawr Joseph's welly blynt, poor lad;
    Eawr Timothy's—a foo';—
He's tried three different maks o' trades,
    An' olez missed his tip;
But, then, he's th' nicest whistler
    That ever cocked a lip!

Eawr Matty helps my mother, an'
    Hoo sews, an' tents eawr Joe;
At doin' sums, an' sich as that,
    My feyther licks 'em o'!
Eawr Charley,—eh, there connot be
    Another pate like his;
It's o' crom-full o' ancientry,
    An' Roman haw-pennies!

Eawr Tummy's taen to preitchin',—
    He's a topper at it, too!
But then,—what's th' use,—eawr Bill
        comes in
    An' swears it winnut do:
When t'one's bin striven' o' he con
    To awter wicked men,
Then t'other mays some marlocks, an'
    Convarts 'em o'er again.

Eawr Abel's th' yung'st; an' next to Joe,
    My mother likes him t' best;
Hoo gi's him brass, aboon his share,
    To keep him nicely drest;—
He's getting in wi' th' quality;
    An' when his clarkin's done,
He's olez oather cricketin',
    Or shootin' wi' a gun.

My uncle Sam's a fiddler; an'
    Aw fain could yer him play
Fro' set o' sun till winter neet
    Had melted into day;
For eh,—sich glee!—sich tenderness!
    Through every changin' part,
It's th' heart 'at stirs his fiddle,—
    An' his fiddle stirs his heart.

When th' owd brid touches th' tremblin'
    It knows his thowt so weel,
It seawnds as iv an angel tried
    To tell what angels feel;
An', sometimes, th' water in his e'en,
    'At fun has made to flow,
Can hardly roll away, afore
    It's weet wi' drops o' woe.

Then, here's to Jone, an' Ab, an' Ned,
    An' Matty,—an' eawr Joe,—
My feyther, an' my mother; an'
    Eawr t'other lads an' o';
An' thee, too, owd musicianer,—
    Aw wish lung life to thee,—
A mon 'at plays a fiddle weel
    Should never awse to dee!



AIR—"The Manchester Angel."

OH, there's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end,
    But nobbut one for me;
It winds by a rindlin' wayter side,
    An' o'er a posied lea.
It wanders into a shady dell;
    An' when aw've done for th' day,
Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine,
    Beawt walkin' deawn that way.

It's noather garden, nor posied lea,
    Nor wayter rindlin' clear;
But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook,
    An' my true love lives theer.
It's olez summer where th' heart's content,
    Tho' wintry winds may blow;
An' there's never a gate 'at's so kind to th' fuut,
    As th' gate one likes to go.

When aw set off o' sweetheartin', aw've
    A theawsan' things to say;
But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top,
    It drives 'em o' away;
An' when aw meet wi' bonny lass,
    It sets my heart a-jee;—
Oh, there's summit i'th leet o' yon two blue e'en
    That plays the dule wi' me!

When th' layrock's finished his wark aboon,
    An' laid his music by,
He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops
    Till dayleet stirs i'th sky.
Though Matty sends me away at dark,
    Aw know that hoo's reet full well;—
An' it's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass,
    No mortal tung can tell!

Aw wish that Candlemas day were past,
    When wakin' time comes on;
An' aw wish that Kesmass time were here,
    An Matty an' me were one.
Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'er—
    This maundeiin' to an' fro;
That aw could go whoam to my own true love,
    An' stop at neet an' o'.



AIR—"Jenny's Bawbee."

I SEED a thowtful chap one day,
His face were mild, his topping grey;
Wi' wanderin' fuut he went astray,
                  Deawn yon lone.
I axed a lame owd mon i'th road,
To tell me what that chap were co'd
Says he, "I thowt oitch body knowed
                  Gentle Jone."

"Owd lad," said I, "just look heaw ronk
These daisies groo'n at th' edge o'th bonk;
Let's keawer us deawn, an' have a conk,
                  Just whol noon."
He poo'd a reech o' bacco eawt,
An' cheese an' mouffin in a cleawt;
An' thus began to tell abeawt
                  Gentle Jone.

Says he, "Some chaps o' brass are fond;
They're trouble's sore wi' cramp i'th hond;
But yon's the fleawer ov o' this lond,—
                  Gentle Jone!
His heart's as true as guinea-gowd;
He's good to folk at's ill an' owd;
Childer poo'n his lap i'th fowd,—
                  Gentle Jone!

I'll bet a groat he's off to th' vale,
Just neaw, to yer some soory tale;
I never knowed his kindness fail,—
                  Gentle Jone!
O'er hill, an' cloof, an' moss, an' moor,
He's reet weel known to folk at's poor;
A welcome fuut at every door,—
                  Gentle Jone!

He taks delight i' roving reawnd,
To nooks where trouble's mostly feawnd;
He comes like rain to drufty greawnd,—
                  Gentle Jone!
He's very slow at thinkin' ill;
Forgi's a faut wi' hearty will;
An' doin' good's his pastime still,—
                  Gentle Jone!

"At th' time I broke this poor owd limb,
I should ha' dee'd except for him."
He said no moor; his e'en geet dim,—
                  Mine were th' same.
"Owd lad," said I, "Come, have a gill!"
"Naw, naw," said he, "I'm rayther ill;
It's time to paddle deawn this hill,
                  To th' owd dame."

'Twere nearly noon, i'th month o' May;
We said we'd meet some other day;
An' then th' owd crayter limped away
                  Deawn th' green lone.
An' neaw, let's do the thing that's reet,
An' then, when death puts eawt e'r leet,
We's haply ston a chance to meet
                  Gentle Jone!



OLD AIR—"When Dolly and I got wed."

TH' wynt blows keen thro' th' shiverin' thorn,
    An' th' leet looks wild i'th sky;
Come, Tet, stir up that fire, an' draw
    That keyther gently by;
Aw've done my weshin', gronny; an'
    Aw've tidied every thing;
An' neaw aw'll sit me deawn to sew,
    An' hearken th' kettle sing.

Bring in some coals; an' shut that dur,—
    It's quite a wintry day;
Reitch deawn that ham; eawr Robin likes
    A relish to his tay.
Sweep th' grate, an' set this table eawt
    Put th' tay-pot upo' th' oon;
It's gettin' on for baggin' time,
    An' he'll be comin' soon.

Th' fire bruns clear; an' th' heawse begins,
    A-lookin' brisk an' breet,
As th' time draws near when he gets back,
    Fro' th' teawn at th' edge o' neet;
It makes one hutch wi' glee to yer
    A favourite fuut come whoam;
An' it's very fine to hearken, when
    One knows its sure to come.

Th' cat pricks up her ears at th' sneck,
    Wi' mony a leetsome toot;
An' th' owd arm-cheer i'th corner seems,
    As if it yerd his fuut;
Th' window blinks; an' th' clock begins
    A-tickin' leawd an' fain;
An' th' tin things winkin' upo' th' wole,—
    They groon as breet again.

Th' kettle's hummin' o'er wi' fun—
    Just look at th' end o'th speawt
It's like some little sooty lad
    At's set his lips to sheawt.
Yon wayter-drops at fo'n fro' th' tap,
    Are gettin' wick wi' glee;
An' yo're fain, gronny, too, aw know,—
    But noan as fain as me.

Keep th' rockers goon' soft an' slow,
    An' shade that leet away;
Aw think this little duck's o'th mend;
    Hoo sleeps so weel to-day;
Doze on, my darlin'; keep 'em shut,—
    Those teeny windows blue;
Good Lord! iv aught should happen thee,
    What could thi mother do!

Here, gronny, put this cover on,
    An' tuck it nicely in;
Keep th' keyther stirrin' gently; an'
    Make very little din.
An' lap thoose dimpled honds away
    Fro' th' frosty winter air;
They lie'n a-top o' th' bit o' quilt,
    Like two clock-hommers cheer.

But stop; hoo's laughin'! come, hie up;
    My bonny little puss!
God bless it!   Daddy's noan far off;
    Let mammy have a buss!
He's here!   He's here!   Tet, bring that cheer!
    Eh, dear; these darlin's two!
Iv it wur not for this chylt an' him,
    What could a body do!




AW'VE worn my bits o' shoon away,
    Wi' roving up an' deawn,
To see yon moorlan' valleys, an'
    Yon little country teawn:
The dule tak shoon, and stockins too!
    My heart feels warm an' fain
An', if aw trudge it bar-fuut, lads,
    Aw'll see yon teawn again!

It's what care I for cities grand,—
    We never shall agree;
Aw'd rayther live where th' layrock sings,—
    A country teawn for me!
A country teawn, where one can meet
    Wi' friends, an' neighbours known;
Where one can lounge i'th market-place,
    An' see the meadows mown.

Yon rollin' hills are very fine,
    At th' end o' sweet July;
Yon woodland' cloofs, an valleys green,—
    The bonnist under th' sky;
Yon dainty rindles, dancin' deawn
    Fro' th' meawntains into th' plain;—
As soon as th' new moon rises, lads,
    Aw'd off to th' moors again!

There's jolly lads among yon hills,
    An' in yon country teawn;
They'n far moor sense than preawder folk,—
    Aw'll peawnd it for a creawn;
They're wick an' warm at wark an' fun,
    Wherever they may go,—
The primest breed o' lads i'th world,—
    Good luck attend 'em o'!

Last neet aw laft the city throng,
    An' climbed yon hillock green;
An' sat me deawn to look at th' hills,
    Wi' th' wayter i' my e'en;—
Wi' th' wayter wellin' i' my e'en;—
    Aw'll bundle up, an' go,
An' live an' dee i' my own countrie,
    Where moorlan' breezes blow!




I GEET up a-milkin' this mornin',—
    I geet up afore it wur leet;
I ne'er slept a minute for thinkin'
    What Robin said yesterneet;
I've brokken two basins i'th dairy;
    I've scoaded my gronny wi' tay;
It's no use a tryin' a-spinnin'—
    My wheel's eawt o' trim to-day.


It's oh, yon Robin, yon Robin;
    His e'en e'er twinkle't so breet,
As they did when he meazur't my finger
    For th' little gowd ring last neet.

Eawr Dorothy's singin' i'th shippon;
    Eawr Jonathan's leawngin' i'th fowd;
Eawr Tummy's at th' fair, where he lippens
    O' swappin' his cowt for gowd;
My gronny's asleep wi' her knittin',
    An' th' kittlin's playin' wi' th' yarn;
Eawr Betty's gone eawt wi' a gallon
    To th' chaps at their wark i'th barn.

Chorus—But oh, yon Robin, yon Robin.

Th' lasses an' lads are i'th meadow;
    They're gettin' their baggin' i'th hay;
I yer 'em as leetsome as layrocks,
    I'th sky ov a shiny day;
But, little I care for their marlocks;
    I dunnot want them for to see,
Though I'm fitter for cryin' than laughin',
    There's nob'dy as fain as me.

Chorus—For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin.

When I crept into th' nook wi' my sewin',
    My mother looked reawnd so sly;
Hoo know'd I could see across th' coppice,
    Where Robin comes ridin' by;
Then hoo coom to me, smilin' an' tootin',
    An' whispeiin', "Heaw doesto feel?
Dost think I should send for a doctor?"
    But, th' doctor hoo knows breet weel,

Chorus—It's nought i'th world but Robin.

My feyther sits dozin' i'th corner,
    He's dreamin' o'th' harvest day;
When Robin comes in for his daughter,
    Eh, what'll my feyther say?
Th' rosebuds are peepin' i'th garden
    An' th' blossom's o'th apple tree;
Oh, heaw will life's winter time find us,—
    Yon Robin o' mine, an' me?

Chorus—For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin.

Then, hey for kisses an' blushes,
    An' hurryin' to an' fro;
An' hey for sly, sweet whispers,
    That nob'dy but me mun know!
Then, hey for rings, an' ribbins,
    An' bonnets, an' posies fine!
An' eh—it's o' in a flutter,—
    This little fond heart o' mine!


For oh, yon Robin, yon Robin;
    His e'en ne'er twinkle't so breet,
As they did when he meazur't my finger
    For th' little gowd ring last neet.




HEIGH, Ned, owd mon, aw feel as fain
    As ony brid 'at sings i' May;
Come, sit tho deawn, aw'll spend a creawn,
    We'n have a roozin' rant to-day;
Let's doance an' sing; aw've bought a ring,
    For bonny Nan i'th Owler dale;
Then heigh for fun; my mopin's done!
    An' neaw aw'm brisk as bottle't ale!
            Oh, guess, owd brid,
                What's beawn to be;
            For I like Nan,—
                An' hoo likes me!

Twelve months i' weeds, when Robin deed,
    Hoo look's so deawn, wi' ne'er a smile
Aw couldn't find i' heart or mind
    To cheep o' weddin' for a while;
Aw thought aw'd bide; but still aw sighed
    For th' mournin' cleawd to clear away;
Aw watched her e'en groo breet again,—
    A layrock tootin' eawt for day!
            Neaw, guess, owd brid,
                What's beawn to be;
            For I like Nan,—
                An' hoo likes me!

Oh, Nanny's fair, an' trim, an' rare;
    A modest lass, an' sweet to see;
Her e'en are blue, her heart it's true,—
    But Nanny's hardly twenty-three;
An' life it's strung, when folk are yung;
    An' waitin' lunger wouldno do;
For, th' moor-end lads, hoo turns their yeds,—
    Hoo's bin a widow lung enoo!
            Then guess, owd brid,
                What's beawn to be;
            For I like Nan,—
                An' hoo likes me!

Aw've sin, at neet, abeawt a leet,
    A midge keep buzzin' to an' fro,
Then dart at th' shine, 'at looked so fine,
    An' brun his wings at th' end ov o';
That midge's me, it's plain to see,
    My wings are brunt, an' yet aw'd fain,
For, wheer aw leet, aw find so sweet,
    Aw's never want to fly again.
            Then guess, owd brid,
                What's beawn to be;
            For I like Nan,—
                An' hoo likes me!



AIR—"Come, sit down, my cronies."

COME, what's th' use o' fratchin', lads, this life's noan
        so lung,
So, iv yo'n gether reawnd, aw'll try my hond at a sung;
It may shew a guidin' glimmer to some wand'rer astray,
Or, haply, gi' some poor owd soul a lift on the way.
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
Or, haply, gi' some poor owd soul a lift on the way.

Life's road's full o' ruts; it's very slutchy, an' it's dree;
An' mony a worn-eawt limper lies him deawn there to
Then, fleawnd'rin' low i'th gutter, he looks reawnd
        wi' dismay,
To see iv aught i'th world can give a lift on the way.
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
To see iv aught i'th world can give a lift on the way.

Oh, there's some folk 'at mun trudge it, an' there's some
        folk 'at may ride,
But, never mortal mon con tell what chance may betide;
To-day, he may be blossomin', like roses i' May;
To-morn, he may be beggin' for a lift on the way.
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
To-morn, he may be beggin' for a lift on the way.

Good-will, it's a jewel, where there's little else to spare;
An' a mon may help another though his pouch may
        be bare;
A generous heart, like sunshine, brings good cheer in
        its ray,
An' a friendly word can sometimes give a lift on the way.
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
An' a friendly word can sometimes give a lift on the way.

Like posies 'at are parchin' in the midsummer sun,
There's mony a poor heart faints afore the journey be run;
Then, lay the dust wi' kindness, till the close of the day,
An' gi' these droopin' travellers a lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
An' gi' these droopin' travellers a lift on the way.

Oh, soft be his pillow, when he sinks deawn to his rest,
That can keep the lamp o' charity alive in his breast;
May pleasant feelin's haunt him as he's dozin' away,
An' angels give him, up aboon, a lift on the way.
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
An' angels give him, up aboon, a lift on the way.

Jog on, my noble comrades, then, an' so mote it be,—
That hond in hond we travel till the day we mun dee;
An' neaw, to end my ditty, lads, let's heartily pray
That heaven may give us ev'ry one a lift on the way.
                                      A lift on the way;
                                      A lift on the way;
That heaven may give us ev'ry one a lift on the way.



AIR—"Robin Tamson's Smithy."

TUM RINDLE lope fro' the chimbley nook,
    As th' winter sun wur sinkin';
Aw'm tire't o' keawrin' here i'th smooke,
    An' wastin' time i' thinkin':
It frets my heart, an' racks my broo—
    It sets my yed a-stewin':
A mon that wouldn't dee a foo,
    Mun up, an' start a-doin'!

Then, Mally, reitch my Sunday shoon,
    To rom my bits o' toes in;
An' hond mo th' jug, fro' top o'th oon,—
    An' let mo dip my nose in!
An', come, an' fill it up again;
    An' dunnot look so deawldy;
There's nought can lick a marlock, when
    One's brains are gettin' meawldy.

Aw'll laithe a rook o' neighbour lads,—
    Frisky cowts, an' bowd uns;
An' let 'em bring their mams an' dads;
    We'n have it pranked wi' owd uns?
An' th' lads an' lasses they sha'n sing,
    An' fuut it, leet an' limber;
An' Robin Lilter, he shall bring
    His merry bit o' timber!

An' Joe shall come, an' Jone, an' Ben;
    An' poor owd limpin' 'Lijah;
An' Mall, an' Sall, an' Fan, an' Nan,
    An' curly-paled 'Bijah ;
An' gentle Charlie shall be theer;
    An' little Dick, the ringer;
An' Moston Sam,—aw like to yer
    A snowy-yedded singer!

Aw'll poo mi gronny eawt o'th nook,
    An' send for Dolly Maybo',
For, when hoo's gradely donned, hoo'll look
    As grand as th' queen o' Shayba;
An' little Nell shall doance wi' me,—
    Eawr Nelly's yung an' bonny;
An' when aw've had a doance wi' thee,
    Aw'll caper wi' my gronny!

Then, Mally, fill it up again;
    An' dunnot look so deawldy
There's nought can lick a marlock, when
    One's brains are gettin' meawldy!
We're yung an' hearty; dunnot croak,
    Let's frisk it neaw, or never;
So, here's good luck to country folk
    An' country fun, for ever!



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