  Air—“Th’ Rakes o’ Mellor.” E 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 Margit’s up i’th teawn; Aw yerd her ax for thee at th’ Crown; An’, just meet neaw, aw scampert 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 eawt 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 te 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’ leet; 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! _
|
|
