A PLEA FRA’ LANCASHUR.
“DEAR POONCH, mi friend, ev cum to u
To beg yur helping hand;
Weel knawin when the poor mon’s pressed,
Yur sure by him to stand.
“Afore this Yanky war bruk oot
That’s made the cotton short,
We’d help’d oorsens, and neer axt nort,
Us scorned at such a thowt.
“But bit be bit the [traps] hev gone
These yurs we’d got togeethur
Until there’s nobbut left for us,
But t’ wurkus, and nay better.
“The likes o us wur niver used
At axin folkis favour;
But starving wife and bairns, puir things,
Soon maks a mon’s will wavur.
“And noo mi hert its breakin, Poonch,
Mi bairns ar wantin bred:
It maks me sae doonherted, that
I ni most wish me dead.
“No more at present can I say,
But ony help wots sent
Yur friends may vera wel be sure
Will not be gold misspent.”
“August 16, 1862.”