TH’ SHURAT WEAVER’S SONG. BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK. Tune …………. Rory O’More.
Confound it! aw ne’er wur so woven afore
Mi back’s welly brocken, mi fingers are sore;
Aw’ve bin starin’ an’ rootin’ among this Shurat,
Till awm very near getten as bloint as a bat.
Every toime aw go in wi’ mi cuts to owd Joe,
He gi’es me a cursin’, an’ bates mi an; o;
Aw’ve a warp i’ one loom wi’ both selvedges marr’d,
An’ tother’s as bad, for he’s dressed it to’ hard.
Aw wish aw wur fur enough off, eawt o’ th’ road,
For o’ weavin’ this rubbitch awn getting reet stowd;
Aw’ve nowt i’ this world to lie deawn on but straw,
For aw’ve only eight shillin’ this fortni’t to draw.
Neaw aw haven’t mi family under mi hat,
Aw’ve a woife an’ six childer to keep eawt o’ that;
So awm raythur among it, at present, yo see,
Iv ever a fellow wur puzzled, it’s me!
Iv one turns eawt to steal, folk’ll co’ me a thief,
An’ aw codno’ put th’ cheek on to ax for relief;
As aw [sedd] " i’ eawr heawse t’other neet to mi woife,
Aw never did nowt o’ this soart i’ mi loife.
One doesn’t loike everyone t’know how they are,
But [we'n] suffered so long thro’ this ‘Merica war,
‘At there’s lots o’ factory folk getten t’ fur end,
An’ they’ll soon be knock’d o’er iv these toimes doesn’t mend.
Oh dear! iv youd Yankees could only just see
Heaw they’re clamming an’ starving poor weavers loike me,
Aw think they’d soon settle their bother, an’ strive
To send us some cotton, to keep us alive.
There’s theawsands o’ folk just i’ th’ best o’ their days,
Wi traces o’ want plainly seen i’ their face;
An’ a future adore ‘em as dreary and dark ---
For when th’ cotton gets done we shall o’ be beawt wark.
We’n bin patient an’ quiet as long as we con,
Th’ bits o’ things we had by us are welly o’ gone;
Aw’ve bin trampin’ so long mi owd shoon are worn eawt,
An’ mi halliday clooas are o’ on ‘em “up th’ speawt.”
It wur nobbut th’ last Monday aw sowd a good bed, -
Nay, very near gan it, - to get us some bread;
Afore these bad toimes cum aw used to be fat,
But neaw, bless yo’re life, awm as thin as a lat!
Mony a toime i’ mi loife aw’ve seen things lookin’ feaw,
But never as awkward as what they are neaw;
Iv there isn’t some help for us factory folk soon,
Awm sure we shall all be knock’d reet eawt o’ tune.
Come, give us a lift, yo at ha nowt to give,
An help yo’re poor brothers an’ sisters to live;
Be kind an’ be tender to th’ needy an’ poor,
An’ we’ll promise when th’ toimes mend we’ll ax yo no moor.