’Sixty-Six by Samuel Laycock
I've never been too comfortable with the tendency that Sam Laycock had to bring in the names of what - to me - are obviously fictitious character names to many of his dialect poems. As examples consider 'eawr Mary Jane', 'eawr Jimmy' and 'mi uncle Dick' in 'It’s Hard to Ceawer I’ Th’ Chimney Nook'.
''Sixty-Six' avoids all that and I find it a fine poem. I expect it was written at the close of '1866' and it expresses some of the emotions that I, myself, have often felt as time slips away to who-know-where. It is, of course, also a metaphor for our own mortality. If you need it, there is a Glossary.
'Sixty-Six
Good-bye, owd ’Sixty-Six;
Tha’s welly played us o thi tricks;
We’n seen thi smoiles, an’ felt thi kicks,
So neaw we’ll say good-bye.
Tha’s seen us sick an’ sad;
Tha’s seen us hearty, weel, an’ glad,
Dancin’ an’ singin’ here loike mad;
Tha’s known some on us t’ cry.
Bring in that poor owd form
’At's standin’ shiverin’ theer i’th’ storm.
Wilt have a drop o’ summat warm
To cheer thi, ’Sixty-Six?
Come in, an’ sit thi deawn,
It’s noan yet toime to goo, not it;
Come, warm them shanks o’ thine a bit,
An’ tell us where tha’rt beawn.
Tha coom here when tha’rn young,
An’ eh! heaw noicely th’ singers sung!
To mak’ thee welcome th’ bells wur rung;
An’ neaw tha’rt beawn to goo.
Owd friend, tha’rt beawn to goo.
Well, come, ther’s summat here to sup;
Ger howd o’th’ pot, an’ drink it up;
Drink th’ New Year’s health, neaw do!
That’s reet, neaw rest thisel’,
For one can see tha’rt noan so well;
Hast ony good owd tales to tell?
Iv so, let’s have ’em neaw,
It’s latish on i’th’ day.
It’s after eight o’clock, owd friend;
Tha’rt gettin’ near thi journey’s end,
Tha’s noan so lung to stay.
He’s faintin’, dear-a-me!
Bring him some wayter in a cup;
Let’s raise his yead, an’ let him sup;
He’s very bad, aw see;
Give him a drop o’ wine.
We munno goo an’ let him dee
Till th’ New Year comes to set him free;
Th’ church clock’s just strikin’ nine.
Three heawrs ull see him off,
Poor thing! he’s getten a weary cough;
It racks him up, altho’ he’s tough;
It shouldn’t use him so,
Th’ owd mon’s i’ pain, aw know.
He’ll noan be with us here so long;
Then let’s strike up a farewell song,
An’ sing it soft an’ slow.
Then leov him to hissel’,
He’s happen summat on his mind
He’d loike to try an’ leov behind,
Hush! hush! yond’s th’ owd church bell,
Biddin’ th’ Owd Year farewell.
O listen, friends! heaw soft an’ sweet,
An’ yet heaw sad it seawnds to-neet!
Toll on, toll on, church bell.
He’s deein’ neaw, be still;
Heaw thick an’ short he tak’s his breath;
He’s lyin’ neaw i’th’ arms o’ Death,
Beyond eawr care an’ skill,
Good-bye, owd Sixty-Six.
Tha’s played thi pranks, an’ done thi tricks,
We’n seen thi smoiles an’ felt thi kicks,
So neaw, Owd Year, good-bye.
From ‘The Collected Writings of Samuel Laycock’, second edition, issued 1908.
Published in Oldham by W. E. Clegg, in London by Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. Ltd., and in Manchester by John Heywood Ltd. and Abel Heywood & Son.
Return to index of Lancashire dialect poems