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;
’Twould 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 screened me;
It gwos again my pluck to dee,
An’ lev her wick beheend me.”
“Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed,
Aw’m finished, to my thinkin’;”
Hoo happed 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 aw’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 rubbed his e’e,
An’ then he donned his breeches;
“Eawr Matty gets as fause,” said he,
“As one o’ Pendle witches;
Iv ever aw’m to muster wit,
It mun be now or never;
Aw think aw’ll try to live a bit;
It wouldn’t do to lev her!”