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My Grandad by John Walker (1845 – 1892)
John Walker was from Blackburn. He was a pupil teacher, but later became a clerk at Peel Mill and studied in the evenings at the Mechanic’s Classes. In 1867 he became an advertising clerk at the Blackburn Times and eventually progressed via sub-editor to business manager.
He worked for a time, and married, in London. In 1884 he went to edit the Warrington Examiner, which he later purchased, and died in that town. He is buried in Blackburn. He wrote in both dialect and literary English.
From ‘A Lancashire Garland’, Selected and Edited by G. Halstead Whittaker, Second Impression, 1936, printed at Elipse Works, Staylybridge by Geo. Whittaker & Sons.
Also published in My North Countrie – An anthology of poetry and prose of the northern counties collected and arranged by Wilfred Pickles. George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1955.
My Grandad
Aw allus wur fond o’ mi grandad,
’Cause aw know he’d a likin’ for me;
He’re a rare owd chap, an’ as kindly
As ever a body could be.
O th’ childer i’ th’ fowd gether’d reawnd him,
When they see him come whooam fro’ up t’ street;
For they knew ther wur apples an’ toffy
Or summat as nice an’ as sweet.
He wove o’ th’ hand-looms for a livin’,
An’ aw mind it wur joyful to me,
Ov a long winter’s neet to be wi’ him
As he keawerd upo’ th’ owd sittin’-tree;
For he sung o’er his work like a good ‘un,
Towd tales, an’ med o sooarts o’ fun;
An’ – wod aw thowt stunnin’ i’ them days –
Aw ne’er went to bed till he’d done.
He looked weel i’ clogs, did my grandad,
As he swung ‘em so steady an’ slow’;
He stood up as streight as a May-pow,
For he’d once been a sowjer, yo’ know.
But, eh! If yo’d sin him o’ th’ Sunday,
Blue coat, knee breeches, an’ shoon,
He’d so mitch o’ th’ angel abeawt him,
One feared he’d be leovin’ us soon.
He kept tooathry hens, for a hobby,
An’ sometimes he’d chickens an’ o;
He spent every bit of his spare time
I’ feedin’ an’ watchin’ ’em grow.
At times t’ lads run after his powtry,
An’ then he geet mad as could be;
He’d swear wod he’d do if he catcht ’em;
But he never catcht one, nod he.
If ever aw geet into lumber,
Or tooar my things in my play,
An’ id favvor’d me geddin’ a thrashin’,
He allus wur ready to say
A soft word or two to mi fayther,
An’ at t’ finish ov o he’d say – “Well,
Lads will be lads, an’ tha knows id –
Tha wur once a young monkey thyself.”
Th’ owd chap worked to th’ day ov his deein’,
An’ o th’ neet, though he sed it wur cowd,
He wouldn’t admit he wur poorly,
Or own to his havin’ grown owd.
So he just pass’d away like a shadow
As goes eawt wi’ th’ settin’ o’ th’ sun;
His last piece wer finisht so quately
Yo’ couldn’t say when it wur done.
God bless his owd face! for aw loved him,
An’ aw wish aw could meet wi’ him soon;
Aw’d willingly journey where he is,
Fow aw know aw should find him aboon;
Aw allus wur fond o’ my grandad,
’Cause aw know he’d a likin’ for me,
He’re a rare owd chap, an’ as kindly
As ever a body could be.
1. Keawerd - sat.
2. 2. Tooathry – two or three.
3. Lumber – trouble.
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