“Aw say, des tu yer theer, heigh! Tum,
Just stop fur a miunit or too;
Is t’ woife, un all t’ bairns weel, ut whoam;
Un aoh gets tu on wi’ owd Sue?”
“Wha! weighving ull hardly meight find;
Aw wish all t’ Surat wur i’th pop,
Foaks seyn, ut if things dunnot mend
Aur maisters ull soon hev tu stop.
Un cotton, they seyn, ’s getting dar,
Un sich stuff it is, railly,
It’s all through this ’Merikay war;
Aw wunther wot th’end on it ull be.”
“Aye! ut aor haose we hennot ainr’d salt,
Eight childer, un Dick, un mysel;
Aw’st caper abaot like o’ cault,
If aw nobbut yeard t’ factory bell.”
Summot like thirty weeks they’n bin stopt,
Un nobbut hoalf-time afore hed,
Aor brass wur soon done, un things popt,
Fur we hed tu do summot for bread.
Un Dick, when he couldent get wark,
Sum urn dree, un daon-hearted did look;
We’d sit theer, baot fire, un th’ dark,
All shiv’ring un huddled I’th’ nook.
Un aw’ve cried to see th’ childer baot meight,
Un cloas, till my e’en couldent see;
Un aw thought, though I didm’t think reight,
Foaks ud leove uz tu starve un to dee.
But, aye, when they brought the relief,
Un gie’d uz o’ shilling ‘o yed,
Aw thought it aboon all belief,
Wi’ two bran, span, new blankets fur th’ bed.
Aor owd cloas wur fettled un petch’d,
Till they wouldent petch up ony more,
When they coom, un then fresh uns wur fetched;
God bless em fur helping the poor.
Naoh, Dick looks as slick as o’ snig,
They’ve drest him so weel – top tu toey,
They’ve gin him o’ second-hand rig;
Un us foine uz a fiddler is Joey.
Awm soa fain, aw mun oat wi ‘t un tell;
Un mi haort, sithee, Tum, ‘s in sich glee,
Aw hardly can hold wi myself-
God bless em! – whoaever they be.”