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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Edwin Waugh 1818–90

Owd Pinder

OWD PINDER were a rackless foo,

An’ spent his days i’ spreein’;

At th’ end ov every drinkin’-do,

He ’re sure to crack o’ deein’;

“Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon;

Aw ’s never live to trail ’em;

My ballis-pipes are eawt o’ tune,

An’ th’ wynt begins to fail ’em!

“Eawr Matty ’s very fresh an’ yung;

’T would ony mon bewilder;

Hoo ’ll wed again afore it ’s lung,

For th’ lass is fond o’ childer;

My bit o’ brass ’ll fly,—yo ’n see,—

When th’ coffin-lid has screen’d me;

It gwos again my pluck to dee,

An’ lev her wick beheend me.

“Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed,

Aw ’m finish’d, to my thinkin’;”

Hoo happ’d him nicely up, an’ said,—

“Thae ’s brought it on wi’ drinkin’!”

“Nay, nay,” said he, “my fuddle ’s done;

We ’re partin’ t’ one fro’ t’ other;

So, promise me that when a ’m gwon,

Thea ’ll never wed another!”

“Th’ owd tale,” said hoo, an’ laft her stoo,

“It ’s rayley past believin’;

Thee think o’ th’ world thea ’rt goin’ to,

An’ leave this world to th’ livin’;

What use to me can deead folk be?

Thae ’s kilt thisel’ wi spreein’;

An’ iv that ’s o’ thae wants wi’ me,

Get forrud wi’ thi deein!”

He scrat his yed, he rubb’d his e’e,

An’ then he donn’d his breeches;

“Eawr Matty gets as fause,” said he,

“As one o’ Pendle witches;

In ever aw ’m to muster wit,

It mun be now or never;

Aw think aw ’ll try to live a bit;

It would n’t do to lev her!”