Cheer Up, Toilin’ Brothers!
Cheer up, toilin’ brothers! cheer up an’ be glad;
Ther’s breeter days for us i’ store;
Things are lookin’ more sattled i’ Lancashire here,
Neaw ’at th’ ’Merica war’s getten o’er.
Th’ long chimnies are smookin’ as hard as they con,
An’ th’ machinery’s whirlin’ areawnd;
Owd shopmates ’at havn’t bin seen for some years
Are o getting’ back to th’ owd greawnd.
Billy Taylor, he’s bin off at Bradford awhile,
Weavin’ woollen for one Mester Hooms,
But he’s brought hissel back to this quarter ogen,
An’ he’s peggin’ away at th’ owd looms.
The’r Jack’s bin i’ Staffordshire one or two years –
He’rn somewhere to’rt Bilston, aw think –
He garden’d an’ did ’em odd jobs abeawt th’ heawse,
An’ he’d twelve bob a week an’ his drink.
An owd crony o’ mine’s bin at Halifax yond,
Sellin’ trotters, an’ tripe, an’ ceaw heel;
I’ winter he’d cockles an’ mussels an’ stuff,
An’ he tells me he did rare an’ weel.
When th’ wayterworks started up to’rt Swineshaw Brook,
He wur th’ gaffer awhile o’er some men;
But for some cause or other he’s left ’em, aw see,
An’ getten i’ th’ factory ogen.
Polly Breawn’s bin i’ sarvice for two or three year’,
At a aleheawse o’ th’ name o’ th’ Bull’s Yead;
An’ her an’ a waiter ther’ is abeawt th’ place,
They tell’n me, are beawn to be wed.
Eawr Lucy’s i’ sarvice up Huddersfield way,
Wi’ some chap – aw’ve forgetten his name; –
But, heawever, hoo says hoo shall leave in a month,
When they’n put her some wark in her frame.
Eh, we han done some knockin’ abeawt up an’ deawn,
While trade’s bin so bad abeawt here!
We could spin some rare yarns, some on us, aw know,
We could tell some strange tales, never fear.
We’n had to set to an’ do o sorts o jobs,
An’ we’n bin among o sorts o’ folks;
Ther’s theawsands i’ Lancashire know what it is,
To go reawnd o’ beggin’ wi’ pokes.
A lot o’ young chaps ’at aw know very weel
Made it up to go singin’ one day,
But th’ very first place ’at they sung at, aw’rn towd,
They gan ‘’em a creawn t’ go away.
Then they sung for a doctor, a bit further up,
An’ Bolus sent one ov his men
Wi’ a shillin’, an’ towd ’em he’d give ’em two moor
Iv they’ sing him “Th’ Shurat Song” ogen.
But come, lads, we’ll say nowt abeawt this no moor,
But try an’ forget o ’at’s past;
It wur th’ first time we’d ever done owt o’ this sooart,
An’ we’re livin’ i’ hope ’at it’s th’ last.
Let’s be careful i’ future o’ th’ bit we con get,
An’ pay off what debts we may owe;
We’n had heawses to live in, clooas, tommy, an stuff,
’At’s never bin paid for, aw know.
Let’s be honest to those ‘at wur friendly to us,
An’ show bi eawr actions we’re men;
Ther’s nob’dy con tell what’s before ‘em i’ th’ world,
We may happen want helpin’ ogen,
Neaw yo’ll kindly excuse ony blunders aw’ve made,
For aw’ve written as weel as aw con;
An’ beg to remain, wi’ respect an’ esteem,
Yours truly, A POOR WORKIN’ MON.