One neet aw crope whoam when my weighvin’ were o’er,
To brush mo, an’ wesh mo, an’ fettle my yure;
Then, trailin’ abeawt, wi’ my heart i’ my shoon,
Kept tryin’ my hond at a bit ov a tune;
As Mally sit rockin’,
An’ darnin’ a stockin’,
An’ tentin’ her bakin’ i’th’ oon.
Th’ chylt were asleep, an’ my clooas were reet;
Th’ baggin’ were ready, an’ o’ lookin’ sweet;
But aw’re mazy, an’ nattle, an’ fasten’t to tell
What the dule it could be that’re ailin’ mysel’;
An’ it made me so naught,
That, o’ someheaw, aw thought,
“Aw could just like a snap at eawr Mall.”
Poor lass, hoo were kinder becose aw were quare;
“Come, Jamie, an’ sattle thisel in a cheer;
Thae’s looked very yonderly mony a day;
It’s grievin’ to see heaw thae’rt wearin’ away,
An’ trailin’ abeawt,
Like a hen at’s i’th meawt;
Do, pritho, poo up to thi tay!
“Thae wants some new flannels; thae’s getten a cowd
Thae’rt noather so ugly, my lad, nor so owd;
But, thae’rt makin’ thisel’ into nought but a slave,
Wi’ weighvin’, an’ thinkin’, an’ tryin’ to save;—
Get summat to heyt,
Or thae’ll go eawt o’ seat,—
For thae’rt wortchin thisel’ into th’ grave.”
Thinks I, “Th’ lass’s reet, an’ aw houd wi’ her wit;”
So aw said—for aw wanted to cheer her a bit—
“Owd crayter, aw’ve noan made my mind up to dee,
A frolic’ll just be the physic for me!
Aw’ll see some fresh places,
An’ look at fresh faces—
An’ go have a bit ov a spree!”
Then, bumpin’ an’ splashin’ her kettle went deawn;
“I’th name o’ good Katty, Jem, wheer arto beawn?
An’ what sort o’ faces dost want—con to tell?
Aw deawt thae’rt for makin’ a foo o’ thisel’,—
The dule may tent th’ o’on,
Iv aw go witheawt shoon,
Aw’ll see where thae gwos to mysel’!”
Thinks I, “Th’ fat’s i’th fire,—aw mun make it no wur,—
For there’s plenty o’ feightin’ to do eawt o’th dur;
So, aw’ll talk very prattily to her, as heaw,
Or else hoo’ll have houd o’ my toppin’ in neaw;”
An’ bith’ leet in her e’en,
It were fair to be sin
That hoo’re ready to rive me i’ teaw.
Iv truth mun be towd, aw began to be fain
To study a bit o’ my cwortin’ again;
So aw said to her, “Mally, this world’s rough enoo!
To fo’ eawt wi’ thoose one likes best, winnut do,—
It’s a very sore smart,
An’ it sticks long i’th heart,”—
An’, egad, aw said nought but what’s true!
Lord, heaw a mon talks when his heart’s in his tung!
Aw roos’t her, poor lass, an’ aw show’d hoo wur wrung,
Till hoo took mo bith hond, with a tear in her e’e,
An’ said, “Jamie, there’s noabry as tender as thee!
Forgi mo, lad, do:
For aw’m nobbut a foo,—
An’ bide wi’ mo, neaw, till aw dee!”
So, we’n bide one another, whatever may come;
For there’s no peace i’th world iv there’s no peace awhoam;
An’ neaw, when a random word gies her some pain,
Or makes her a little bit crossish i’th grain,
Sunshine comes back,
As soon as aw crack
O’ beginning my cwortin again.