Owd Ailse's Thrift. Poem by William Baron

'What meks tha sit so quate, to-neet? Come, hesta nowt to say?
Tha coom i' th' heawse an' never spooak o t' time tha geet thi tay.
An' when aw looked up i' thi e'en, aw seed tears peepin' throo.
Neaw, lad, ther's summat troubles tha, sooa tell me what's to do.'

'Well, lass, aw mut as weel speyk eawt - aw've some bad news to tell;
An' when aw've towd mi tale, aw know tha'll be upset thisel.
Life's bin just like a sunny dreeam, but neaw it's drear an' dark;
An' t' cause ov o mi trouble, lass, is this - aw'm eawt o' wark.

'Aw've woven deawn at t' factory yon for close on forty year;
But age an' service ceawnt as nowt if th' average isn't theer.
For neaw, because aw've getten owd, an' corn'd keep up wi' t' pace,
Aw hev to shift for younger fooak to come an' tek mi place.

'When t' tackler coom wi' t' slate, to-day, he fairly carried on;
An' towd me he'd be like to try an' find a better mon.
He waited for me comin' eawt, as soon as th' engine stopped;
An' sed aw needn't gooa no mooar, because mi looms wur shopped.

'An' that's what's med me sit so quate, sin' aw coom hooam, toneet;
We've nowt i' t' world to save us neaw fro' bein' turned i' t' street.
For t' bits o' goods 'll soon be gone - an' when they've o bin sowd,
Ther'll be nowt left but t' warkheawse, then, an' t' thowt on't meks me cowd.'

'Tha needn't look so deawn, owd lad, just hear what aw've to say:
We'st never gooa to th' warkheawse, mon, sooa drive sich thowts away.
An' as far bein' turned i' t' street - that's what 'll never be;
For this owd heawse we're livin' in belongs to thee an' me.

'Aw've t' deeds for 't locked i' t' dresser-drawer, they've bin theer mony a while;
An' sitha what aw've getten here - aw knew aw'd mek tha smile!
It's t' bank book, showin' t' brass aw've saved - neaw! what's ta think o' thad?
Enuff to keep us booath for life, an' mooar beside, owd lad.'

'God bless thee, Ailse. Tha good owd wife, aw never thowt o' this;
Mi feelin's cornd be towd i' words—sooa, come, let's hev a kiss!
Tha's bin t' good angel o' mi life—a priceless, Heaven-sent gift;
An' breetened up life's closin' days wi' t' fruits o' luv an' thrift.'