Th’ owd veteran brid’s toppled deawn fro’ his pearch,
He’ll charm us no more wi’ his singin’;
His voice has been hushed i’th melodious grove,
Wheer feebler voices are ringin’!
He sang in his youth, in his green owd age;
An’ he sang when i’ monly prime;
Then, like other warblers, he meaunted aloft,
To a fairer an’ sunnier clime
He sang fifty year sin’, ere some o’ us brids
Had managed to creep eawt o’th’ shell;
An’ sweetly an’ grandly he poiped i’ those days,
As th’ owd Middletonians can tell!
Unloike other warblers an’ songsters o’th’ grove,
He ne’er changed his fithers, nor meawted;
For th’ lunger he lived, an’ th’ harder he sung,
An’ faster these ornaments spreawted.
He wur dragg’d fro’ his nest once, at th’ dead-time o’th’ neet,
An’ him an’ his mate had to sever,
But it ne’er made no difference to him – not a bit,
For he sang just as sweetly as ever.
He warbled his notes in his own native shire,
When his pearch wur surreaunded wi’ dangers;
An’ he ne’er changed his tune when he’rn hurried away,
An’ imprisoned ‘mongst traitors an’ strangers.
Owd Sam seldom flattered wi’ owt ’at he wrote,
But for truthfulness allus wur famed;
When he feawnd ther’ wur owt needed smitin’, he smote,
An’ cared nowt whoa praised or whoa blamed.
An’ they wur songs, wur his, – not that maudlin’ stuff,
Would-be poets spin eawt into rhyme; –
Ther’s a genuine ring ’i what great men sing,
Summat sweet, summat grand, an’ sublime!
He warbled when Waugh wur a fledglin’ i’th’ nest,
An’ had ne’er had a thowt abeawt meauntin’;
An’ young ’Lijah Rydin’s had hardly begun
To give us his “Streams fro’ th’ owd Fountain.”
Th’ owd loom heawse i’ Middleton rang wi’ his notes,
An’ his shuttle kept toime to his songs,
Ere he led up his neighbours to famed Peterloo,
To deneaunce what they felt to be wrongs.
He sang when his mate drooped away at his side,
Not a song o’ rejoicin’ or gladness,
But a low, plaintive dirge, softened deawn an’ subdued,
Wellin’ eawt ov a heart full o’ sadness.
He sang, too, when th’ spoiler bore off his lone lamb,
Tho’ his heart wi’ deep sorrow wur riven;
Stll he didn’t despair, for he’d faith to believe
’At his dear ones had gone up to heaven.
He sang when th’ breet sunshine illumined his path,
An’ th’ fleawers wur o bloomin’ areawnd;
An’ he sang, too, when th’ storm-cleawds coom sweepin’ along,
An’ threatened to crush him to th’ greawnd.
He sang when his een had grown tearful an’ dim,
An’ his toppin’ had turned thin an’ grey;
An’ th’ muse never left this owd veteran bard,
Till Death coom an’ took him away.
Thus he sung till he deed, an’ his soul-stirrin’ strains,
Never failed to encourage an’ bless;
For he loved to rejoice wi’ those hearts ’at rejoiced,
An’ sorrow wi’ those i’ distress.
God bless him, an’ iv ther’s a spot up aboon,
Wheer dwell th’ noble-minded an’ pure,
Wheer th’ songsters are gathered to strike up a tune,
Th’ owd brid’s perched amongst ’em we’re sure!