TICKLE TIMES. (FROM “LANCASHIRE SONGS.”] BY EDWIN WAUGH.
HERE’S Robin looks fyerfully gloomy,
An’ Jamie keeps starin’ at th’ greawnd
An’ thinkin’ o’ th’ table ‘at’s empty,
An’ th’ little things yammerin’ reawnd;
It’s true, it looks dark just afore us, -
But, keep your hearts eawt o’ your shoon, -
Though clouds may be thickenin’ o’er us,
There’s lots o’ blue heaven aboon!
But, when a mon’s honestly willin’,
An’ never a stroke to be had,
And clemmin’ for want ov a shillin’, -
No wonder ‘at he should be sad;
It troubles his heart to keep seein;
His little brids feedin’ o’ th’ air;
An’ it feels very hard to be deein’,
An’ never a mortal to care.
But life’s sich a quare little travel, -
A marlock wi’ sun an’ wi’ shade, -
An’ then, on a bowster o’ gravel,
They lay’n us i’ bed wi’ a spade;
It’s no use a peawtin’ an’ fratchin’ –
As th’ whirligig’s twirlin’ areawnd,
Have at it again; and keep scratchin’
As lung as your yed’s upo’ greawnd.
Iv one could but grope i’ th’ inside on ‘t,
There’s trouble i’ every heart;
An’ thoose that ‘n th’ biggest o’ th’ pride on ‘t,
Oft leeten o’ th’ keenest o’ th’ smart.
Whatever may chance to come to us,
Let’s patiently hondle er share, -
For there’s mony a fine suit o’ clooas
That covers a murderin’ care.
There’s danger i’ every station, -
I’ th’ palace as much as i’ th’ cot;
There’s hanker i’ every condition,
An’ canker i’ every lot;
There’s folk that are weary o’ livin’,
That never fear’t hunger nor cowd;
And there’s mony a miserly nowmun
‘At’s deed ov a surfeit o’ gowd.
One feels, neaw ‘at times are so nippin’,
A mon’s at a troublesome schoo’,
That slaves like a horse for a livin’,
An’ flings it away like a foo’;
But, as pleasure’s sometimes a misfortin,
An’ trouble sometimes a good thing, -
Though we livin’ o’ th’ floor, same as layrocks,
We’n go up, like layrocks, to sing.