  O Owd Pinder were a rackless foo, An’ spent his days i’ spreein’; At th’ end ov every drinkin’-do, He’re sure to crack o’ deein’; “Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon; Aw’s never live to trail ’em; My ballis-pipes are eawt o’ tune, An’ th’ wynt begins to fail ’em!” “Eawr Matty’s very fresh an’ yung; ’Twould ony mon bewilder; Hoo’ll wed again afore it’s lung, For th’ lass is fond o’ childer; My bit o’ brass’ll fly,—yo’n see,— When th’ coffin-lid has screened me; It gwos again my pluck to dee, An’ lev her wick beheend me.” “Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed, Aw’m finished, to my thinkin’;” Hoo happed him nicely up, an’ said, “Thae’s brought it on wi’ drinkin’!”— “Nay, nay,” said he, “my fuddle’s done; We’re partin’ t’one fro’ t’other; So, promise me that when aw’m gwon, Thea’ll never wed another!” “Th’ owd tale,” said hoo, an’ laft her stoo, “It’s rayley past believin’; Thee think o’th’ world thea’rt goin’ to, An’ leave this world to th’ livin’; What use to me can deead folk be? Thae’s kilt thisel’ wi’ spreein’; An’ iv that’s o’ thae wants wi’ me, Get forrud wi’ thi deein’!” He scrat his yed, he rubbed his e’e, An’ then he donned his breeches; “Eawr Matty gets as fause,” said he, “As one o’ Pendle witches; Iv ever aw’m to muster wit, It mun be now or never; Aw think aw’ll try to live a bit; It wouldn’t do to lev her!” _
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