William Baron

The usual thing it used to be
Our summers to decry,
Because they were too wet, you see,—
We longed to have them dry.
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'What meks tha sit so quate, to-neet ?
Come, hes ta nowt to say ?
Theaw coom i' th' heawse an' never spoke
O th' time theaw geet thi tay.
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Yo may talk abeawt Growcot, or Postle, or Day,
As runners o' fame an' reneawn ;
But if Owd Billy Putty mun pick his own track,
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Aw've bin watchin' th' Whit-Frida' processions,—
Th' big event uv o' th' year in eawr teawn';
An' aw thowt it might prove interestin'
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Ther's an owd family relic on th' bookshelf up theer,
An’ aw'll keep it till th' day 'at aw dee;
Aw know 'at it wouldno' be wo'th mich to yo,
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As the Fairy Queen sat on her gossamer throne
That sparkled with pearls of dew,
She suddenly cried to a sprite at her side-
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Aw know a wench wi' soft blue een
'At dart forth luvvin' glances ;
An' it's hur aw'd like to mek mi queen,
For mi soul hoo fair entrances.
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Theaw thinks theaw'rt hon'some - doesno' theaw ?
But tek my word theaw'rt reet deawn feaw;
No sign o' beauty con one trace,
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Well, what are ta bringin' us, like, when theaw comes ?—
We're feelin' quite anxious to know ;
Is it good news 'at'll gladden eawr hearts ?
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Aw'd just stopped to rest me, a bit past th' owd farm;
For t' basket wur heavy, an' t' weather wur warm.
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Aw've a snug little cot, an' a sweet-tempered wife,
To help me an' cheer me throo th' journey o' life;
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For close on a year, aw'v bin courtin',
Wi' a lass, eh, so tender an' true;
An' for beauty, yo'd find nooan to match hur,
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' Where is my wandering boy to-night ?—the boy of my tenderest care ?—'
The voice of the singer rang clear and sweet on the biting Christmas air ;
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No deawt yo've yerd speyk uv Owd Turpin,
' At used to live up at Pell Mell;
He wur quite an eccentric owd felley,
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When th' factory loces uv a neet,
An' labour's o'er for th' day,
What throngs o' warkin' folk yo’ll meet,
Wi' spirits leet an' gay,
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Theaw'rt welcome, Prince, as fleawers i' May,
To eawr little village!
An' thi health we'll drink to-day
I'th' choicest ale on th' stillage.
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It seems no mooar nor tuthri year,
Sin' th' day 'at we wur wed!
An' yet ther's fifty summers bloomed,
An' fifty winters fled.
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Ther's a grond little spot in this owd teawn uv eawrs,—
A pratty an' cosy retreat,
Wheer ther's velvetty lawns, thickly bordered wi fleawers,
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'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.
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We're ramblin' reawnd th' owd spot agen,—
Th' owd favourite spot uv o';
Wheer oft we've towd eawr saycrets, lass,
I' whispers soft an' low
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