TH’ SURAT WEYVER WILLIAM BILLINGTON
We’re werkin lads frae Lankisheer,
Un gradely daysent fooak;
We’n hunted weyvin far un near,
Un could’nd ged a strooak;
We’n sowd booath table, clock un cheer,
Un popt booath shoon un hat,
Un borne wod mortal mon could bear,
Affoor we’d wevye Surat!
Ids neeah aboon a twelmon gone
Sin t’ Yankee war brooake eeat;
Un t’ poor’s traade herd to potter on
Tell t’ rich ud potter eeat;
We’n left no stooan unturn’d, nod one,
Sin t’ trade becoom so flatt,
Bud neeah they’n browt us to id, mon,
They’n med us wevye Surat!
Aw’ve yerd fooak toke o’ t’ treydin mill,
Un pickin’ oakum too;
Bud stransportashun’s nod as ill
As weyvin rotton Su!
Ids bin too monny for yar Bill,
Un aw’m as thin as a latt,
Bud uv wey wi t’ Yankees hed ur will,
We’d hangem i’t’ Surat!
Ids just laake rowlin stooans up t’ broo,
Or twistin rooaps o’ sand;—
Yo piece yore twist, id comes i’ two,
Laake copwebs i’ yor hand;
Aw’ve werk’d un woven laake a foo!
Tell aw’m as weak as a cat,
Yet after o as aw could do
Aw’m konkurd bi t’ Surat!
Yar Mally’s i’t’ twist fever, un
Meh feyther’s getten begg’d;
Strenge tecklers win nod teck him on,
Becose his cooat’s so ragg’d!
Me moother ses ids welly done—
Hoo’l petch id wi her brat,
Un meek id fit for ony mon
Whod roots among t’ Surat!
Aw wonst imagund Deeoth’s a very
Dark un dismal face;
Bud neeah aw fancy t’ cemetery
Is quaate a pleasant place!
Bud sin wey took yar Bill to bury,
Aw’ve offen wish’d Owd Scrat
Ud fotch o t’ bag-o-tricks un lorry,
To hell wi o’ t’ Surat!