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APPENDIX.
――♦――


Jack Swaddle.*

I.

Jack Swaddle wur a lurcher,
    Though he wur young an' stark;
For he're fond o' meight an' drink,
    But never liked his wark;
He'd guttle o' before him,
    An' when he'd taen his fill,
He'd poo his blankets o'er him,
    To make folk think he're ill.

II.

His wife felt mischief brewin'
    Afore they'd long bin wed;
Hoo'd to slave to keep him gooin',
    While he lay snug i' bed;
An, at what th' owd lad wur aimin'
    Hoo couldn't justly tell,
For, hoo sometimes thought he're schamin
    When he reckon't to be ill.

III.

“What's th' matter with our Jack, yon?
    I wonder how he feels;
Though he's lyin' on his back, yon,
    He's ready for his meals.
I's be like to have a doctor;
    He's gettin' past my skill;
An' there's nob'dy but a doctor
    Can find out where he's ill.”

IV.

When th' doctor coom to sound him,—
    His tongue, his pulse, an' o',
He're puzzled, for he found him
    O reet, fro top to toe.
“Thou eats weel; an' thou sleeps weel;
    An' thi een are clear an' breet;
But, I think I know what ails tho;
    An' I'll try to put tho reet.”

V.

“Matty; yo'n ha' some trouble
    Wi' yon ailment o' yor John's;
It'll tak a deal o' curin',
    For its sattle't in his bwons;
But, trate him as I've towd yo;
    Though he'll think his physic strange;
If he taks it, I'll uphowd yo,
    It'll bring some mak o' change.”

VI.

“John; th' doctor say thy illness
    Is of a serious natur;
Thou'rt to lie i' bed a fortnit,
    An' live o' toast an' wayter;
Thou'rt to have no other meat nor drink,
    But tak some pills he'll send tho;
If it doesn't put tho reet, he thinks
    That it may happen end tho.”

VII.

“The dule may tak sich doctors!
    I'll try to cure mysel'.
He may gi' thee th' toast an' wayter,
    An' tak his pills his sel'!
Here; reitch my clooas; I'll get up!
    It comes into my yed,
That I'd rayther dee upo' my feet
    Than clem to deeoth i' bed!”

* These verses were accidentally omitted in the previous part
of the book.

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Fylde Fisherman's Song.

To an old country tune.

This quaint country fishing song was first printed in my volume of Lancashire Sketches. Before that time it seems to have been almost unknown out of the Fylde country, to which it relates. I wrote it down from the recitation of old Thomas Smith, better known as “Owd England,” who lived in the little seaside village of Norbreck, near Bispham, in the Fylde, and was “wreckmaster” and fisherman on that part of the Lancashire coast. There is not much in the words except a quiet tone of natural simplicity, with, here and there, a graphic touch, which breathes the spirit of the secluded district from which the song originated. The song was written early in the present century, by William Garlick, a poor man, and a weaver of “pow davy,” a kind of sail-cloth. The tune is a quaint and simple air, which I never heard before.

I.

Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Said Dick unto Tom, one Friday at noon,
“I could like to goo a-bobbin' i'th mornin' varra
                   soon;
    To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!”

Then up in the mornin' Dick did rise;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Then up in the mornin' Dick did rise;
An' to Tom's door like leetnin' flies;
    To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

So up Tom jumped, an' down stairs dart,
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
So up Tom jumped, an' down stairs dart,
To goo a-gettin' dew-worms, afore they start;
    Wi' my heigho, an' my worm-can an' o';
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

Then they hunted, an' they rooted, an' they
                   seeched about;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Then they hunted, an' they rooted, an' they
                   seeched about;
“Bi th' mass,” said little Tom, “but there's noan
                   so mony out!”
    To my heigho, wi' my worm-can an' o';
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

Then off they went, wi' their bob-rods i' hond;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
Then off they went, wi' their bob-rods i' hond,
Like justices o' peace, or governors o' lond;
    To my heigho, wi' my snig-bags an' o';
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido.

An' when they geet to Kellamoor, that little
                   country place;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
An' when they geet to Kellamoor, that little
                   country place,
Th' childer wur so freetent that they durstn't shew
                   their face,
    To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o';
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

An' when they coom to Brynin', folk thought it
                   wur a mob;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
An' when they coom to Brynin', folk thought it
                   wur a mob,
Till little Tommy towd 'em that they wur but
                   baan to bob;
    To my heigho, wi' my bob-rods an' o;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

But, when they geet to Wharton, they wur theer
                   afore the tide;
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido;
But, when they geet to Wharton, they wur theer
                   afore the tide,
So they jumped into a boat, an' away they both
                   did ride,
    Wi' their bob-rods, an' snig-bags, an' worm-cans
                   an' o';
        Loddle iddle, fol der diddle ido!

_________________________

 
On Reading Edwin Waugh's
Lancashire Poems.

I.

Simple tales of simple lovers,
    Noble words 'bout nobler hearts,
Told with such melodious sweetness
    That their echoes ne'er depart.

II.

Sings he not of mighty heroes
    Fallen in unholy strife,
But of men whose high ambition
    Is to lead an honest life.

III.

Sons of toil and honest labour,
    Men of iron nerve and will,
But with hearts of tenderest feeling
    For a suffering brother's ill.

IV.

Then he tells us of a maiden
    Decked to meet her rustic swain;
Then describes a village courtship
    Down a moss-grown country lane,

V.

Then again a simple labourer,
    Simple in his wants and fare,
But beneath that rough, hard surface
    Lies a gem of beauty rare.

VI.

Then there is the comely matron,
    Listening for her husband's tread:
Then he shows how kings and nobles
    Like the beggar are—when dead.

VII.

All he tells with such rare beauty,
    But in such a homely style,
That we've hardly finished weeping
    Ere he moves us to a smile.

VIII.

May his words, so quaint and tender—
    May his words so rich and rare,
In the autumn of his lifetime
    Many golden harvests bear.

C. EDITH LORT BEDELLS

_________________________

 
To Edwin Waugh,

ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY, JANUARY 29TH, 1887.

These lines were read at the Banquet given at the Queen's Hotel, Manchester, in celebration of Mr. Waugh's Seventieth Birthday.

I.

TIS over thirty years, friend Waugh,
    Since thou and I first met:
A manly face, a twinkling eye,
    A voice to music set.

II.

Were thine to please, to charm, to win,
    All round the social board,
Where kindly sympathetic ears
    Hung on each tuneful word.

III.

Since then I've roamed the moorland wild,
    With poesy and thee;
And pressed the fragrant heather bell
    With footstep light and free.

IV.

And I have known thee since, when care
    And dire affliction traced
The lines that tell of weary days
    No healing hath effaced.

V.

When silver crept amongst thy hair,
    Now changed to wintry rime;
And stooped thy form beneath the load
    Of unrelenting Time.

VI.

Thy lyre hath sounded 'mid the strife
    Of worldly thoughts and ways;
Thy song hath cheered the hapless wight
    With dreams of happier days.

VII.

Soon thou must lay thy harp aside,
    Hushed for the passing hour;
But memory may wake its tones
    With echoes of its power.

VIII.

The sun of thy poetic day
    For ever may have set;
But rosy are the twilight tints
    That linger round thee yet.

IX.

Ere these dissolve in darksome night,
    And leave thy soul forlorn,
May'st thou behold the breaking light
    Of an eternal morn.

BEN BRIERLEY.

_________________________

 
To Edwin Waugh.

ON A COPY OF HIS POEMS, PRESENTED
TO THE WRITER.

I.

Thanks, Edwin Waugh,
Before I saw
        Thy racy dialect verses,
Such tongue, to me,
Appeared to be
        Fit garb for oaths and curses!

II.

But here thou's found
Both form and sound
        For songs that move the people,
And point the way
To heavenly day
        True as a Minster—steeple.

III.

Yes, “Lancashire”
A poet's fire
        Ill fitted seems to cherish;
Yet, by such speech,
Thy songs shall teach
        With force that cannot perish.

IV.

To us they come
Fragrant of home—
        Where chance true friends ne'er
            severs:
True wisdom's streams
And wit's bright gleams
        Here flash like northern rivers.

V.

Go, sow the seeds
Of manly deeds,
        Thy worth—true souls shall
            know it;
Brace every heart
To bear its part,
        Thou true-born people's poet!

VI.

“Come whoam's” a gem
Of lasting fame,
        Most apt to win the rover
Back to his nest
From follies' quest
        The working wide world over.

VII.

Home! pole-star bright
In time's dark night,
        Earth's wilderness oasis;
A lighthouse tower
Lit by the power
        Of radiant happy faces!

VIII.

Home! sacred word,
Thy joys afford
        Earth's purest consolation—
Where souls combine,
The hearth's a shrine—
        A heavenward preparation.

IX.

Home! that blest morn
Beyond time's bourn,
        Christ's flock in dust now sleeping,
Shall rise to thee,
Pure, ransomed, free,
        To end earth's night of weeping.

X.

Then “buckle to”
And bravely hew
        Thy way to manhood's glory.
Strength, freedom, rest,
A mansion blest
        Shall crown life's battle story.

SAMUEL BARBER.