It’s Hard to Ceawer I’ Th’ Chimney Nook
by Samuel Laycock
From ‘Lancashire Miscellany’, 1960, edited by James Bennett, published by Hirst, Kidd & Rennie, Oldham.
This is another of Laycock's heartfelt poems written to raise awareness of the plight of the poor of the Lancashire cotton towns during the Cotton Famine of the early 1880s. He and his ilk were performing much the same role as roving cameramen and television reporters today who send back footage of the distressed of Africa or elsewhere, or of the pop-stars who host concerts designed to do the same thing and to raise money for relief.
It’s Hard to Ceawer I’ Th’ Chimney Nook
by Samuel Laycock
It’s hard to ceawer i’ th’ chimney nook,
Fro’ weary day to day;
An’ no kind word, nor lovin’ look
To drive one’s care away!
Mi clooas are welly o worn eawt,
An’ neaw aw’m sich a seet,
Aw dunno’ loike to walk abeawt
Unless it’s dark at neet.
To get us bread, mi mother sowd
Eawr mattresses an’ sheets;
An’ oh! it is so bitter cowd,
These frosty wintry neets!
Two ladies kindly co’d one day,
An’ put us deawn some shoon;
They said they’d sheets to give away,
An’ we must ha’ some soon.
Eawr Mary Jane’s a bonny lass,
Wi’ two such rosy cheeks;
Hoo goes to th’ Refuge Sewin’ Class,
An’ has done neaw for weeks.
Poor thing! hoo’s badly starved, aw know,
Hoo’s scarcely owt to wear;
Aw do so wish ‘at somebody ‘d co,
‘At’s getten owt to spare.
Her petticoats are o worn eawt;
Her Sunday frock’s I’ holes;
An’ then her boots – hoo’s welly beawt –
They want booath heels an’ soles.
Aw wish mi feyther had a job,
He looks so strange an’ wild;
He’ll sit for heawers at th’ side o’ th’ hob,
An’ cry just like a child.
No wonder he should pine an’ fret,
An’ look soa discontent;
For th’ gas bill isn’t settled yet,
An’ th’ lon’lord wants his rent.
Mi mother’s bin to th’ shop to-neet,
To fetch a bit o’ tay;
Hoo says they hardly looken reet,
Becose hoo conno pay.
An’ who con blame ‘em? Nob’dy con;
They’re wur nor us, bi th’ mass!
Iv they’re to pay for what they han,
They’re loike to ha’ some brass;
We’n lived as careful as we con
Aw’m sure, but after o
A great big shop score’s runnin’ on,
For twothry peawnd or so.
Aw’ve etten bacon till aw’m sick;
Eawr Jimmy has an’ o;
An’ iv yo’ll ax mi uncle Dick,
He’ll tell yo’ th’ same, aw know.
Of porritch aw’ve had quite enoo,
For they dunno suit, aw find;
Aw conno do wi’ soup an’ stew,
They fill one full o’ wind.
Aw’m glad o’ every bit aw get,
An’ rare an’ thankful feel;
Aw’ve allus getten summat yet,
To mak’ misel a meal.
Thank God! w’en never ax’d i’ vain,
For folk are kind, aw’m sure;
God bless em’ o for what they’n gan;
One conno say no moor.