Название: Lancashire Songs
Автор: Edwin Waugh
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066167332
isbn:
Edwin Waugh
Lancashire Songs
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066167332
Table of Contents
COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN’ ME.
COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE.
THE DULE’S I’ THIS BONNET O’ MINE.
COME, JAMIE, LET’S UNDO THI SHOON.
WHILE TAKIN’ A WIFT O’ MY PIPE.
AW’VE WORN MY BITS O’ SHOON AWAY.
COME WHOAM TO THI CHILDER AN’ ME.
Aw’ve just mended th’ fire wi’ a cob;
Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon; There’s some nice bacon collops o’th hob, An’ a quart o’ ale-posset i’th oon; Aw’ve brought thi top cwot, doesto know, For th’ rain’s comin’ deawn very dree; An’ th’ har’stone’s as white as new snow; Come whoam to thi childer an’ me.
When aw put little Sally to bed, Hoo cried ’cose her feyther weren’t theer; So aw kiss’d th’ little thing, an’ aw said Thae’d bring her a ribbin fro’ th’ fair; An’ aw gav her her doll, an’ some rags, An’ a nice little white cotton bo’; An’ aw kiss’d her again; but hoo said At hoo wanted to kiss thee an’ o’.
An’ Dick, too, aw’d sich wark wi’ him, Afore aw could get him up stairs; Thae towd him thae’d bring him a drum, He said, when he’re sayin’ his prayers; Then he look’d i’ my face, an’ he said, “Has th’ boggarts taen houd o’ my dad?” An’ he cried whol his e’en were quite red;— He likes thee some weel, does yon lad!
At th’ lung-length aw geet ’em laid still; An’ aw hearken’t folks’ feet at went by; So aw iron’t o’ my clooas reet weel, An’ aw hanged ’em o’th maiden to dry; When aw’d mended thi stockin’s an’ shirts, Aw sit deawn to knit i’ my cheer, An’ aw rayley did feel rather hurt— Mon, aw’m one-ly when theaw art’nt theer.
“Aw’ve a drum and a trumpet for Dick; Aw’ve a yard o’ blue ribbin for Sal; Aw’ve a book full o’ babs; an’ a stick, An’ some bacco an’ pipes for mysel; Aw’ve brought thee some coffee an’ tay— Iv thae’ll feel i’ my pocket, thae’ll see; An’ aw’ve bought tho a new cap to-day— But aw olez bring summat for thee!
“God bless tho, my lass; aw’ll go whoam, An’ aw’ll kiss thee an’ th’ childer o’ reawnd; Thae knows, at wheerever aw roam, Aw’m fain to get back to th’ owd greawnd; Aw can do wi’ a crack o’er a glass; Aw can do wi’ a bit ov a spree; But aw’ve no gradely comfort, my lass, Except wi’ yon childer and thee.”
WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN?
What ails thee, my son Robin? My heart is sore for thee; Thi cheeks are grooin’ thinner, An’ th’ leet has laft thi e’e; Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome, An’ looks so pale at morn; God bless tho, lad, aw’m soory To see tho so forlorn.
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