Home  »  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895  »  Welcome, Bonny Brid!

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

Samuel Laycock 1825–93

Welcome, Bonny Brid!

THA ’rt welcome, little bonny brid,

But should n’t ha’ come just when tha did;

Toimes are bad.

We ’re short o’ pobbies for eawr Joe,

But that, of course, tha did n’t know,

Did ta, lad?

Aw ’ve often yeard mi feyther tell,

’At when aw coom i’ th’ world misel

Trade wur slack;

An’ neaw it ’s hard wark pooin’ throo—

But aw munno fear thee; iv aw do

Tha ’ll go back.

Cheer up! these toimes ’ull awter soon;

Aw ’m beawn to beigh another spoon—

One for thee;

An’ as tha ’s sich a pratty face,

Aw ’ll let thee have eawr Charley’s place

On mi knee.

God bless thee, love, aw ’m fain tha ’rt come,

Just try an’ mak thisel awhoam:

What ar ’t co’d?

Tha ’rt loike thi mother to a tee,

But tha ’s thi feyther’s nose, aw see,

Well, aw ’m blow’d!

Come, come, tha need n’t look so shy,

Aw am no’ blackin’ thee, not I;

Settle deawn,

An’ tak this haup’ney for thisel’,

There ’s lots o’ sugar-sticks to sell

Deawn i’ th’ teawn.

Aw know when furst aw coom to th’ leet

Aw ’re fond o’ owt ’at tasted sweet;

Tha ’ll be th’ same.

But come, tha ’s never towd thi dad

What he ’s to co thi yet, mi lad—

What ’s thi name?

Hush! hush! tha munno cry this way,

But get this sope o’ cinder tay

While it ’s warm;

Mi mother us’d to give it me,

When aw wur sich a lad as thee,

In her arm.

Hush a babby, hush a bee—

Oh, what a temper! dear a-me,

Heaw tha skroikes!

Here ’s a bit o’ sugar, sithee;

Howd thi noise, an’ then aw ’ll gie thee

Owt tha loikes.

We ’n nobbut getten coarsish fare,

But eawt o’ this tha ’st ha’ thi share,

Never fear.

Aw hope tha ’ll never want a meel,

But allus fill thi bally weel

While tha ’rt here.

Thi feyther ’s noan bin wed so long,

An’ yet tha sees he ’s middlin’ throng

Wi’ yo’ o:

Besides thi little brother, Ted,

We ’n one up-steers, asleep i’ bed

Wi’ eawr Joe.

But though we ’n childer two or three,

We ’ll make’ a bit o’ reawm for thee—

Bless thee, lad!

Tha ’rt th’ prattiest brid we han i’ th’ nest;

Come, hutch up closer to mi breast—

Aw ’m thi dad.