The Lancashire Witch
by John Scholes (1808 - 1863)
An owd maid aw shall be, for aw’m eighteen to-morn,
An’ aw m’yen to keep single an’ free;
But the dule’s i’ the lads, for a plague they were born,
An’ thi never con let one a-be, a-be,
They never con let one a-be.
Folk seyn aw’m to’ pratty to dee an owd maid,
An’ 'at luv’ sits an’ laughs i’ my ee;
By-leddy! aw’m cap’t 'at folk wantin’ to wed;
Thi’ mey o tarry single for me, for me,
Thi’ mey o tarry single for me.
There’s Robin a’ Mill, - he’s so fond of his brass, -
Thinks to bargain like shoddy for me;
He may see a foo’s face if he looks in his glass,
An aw’d thank him to let me a-be, a-be,
Aw’d thank him to let me a-be.
Coom a chap t’other day o i’ hallidi’ trim,
An’ he swoor he’d goo dreawn him for me;
“Hie thi whoam furst an’ doff thi,” aw sed, “bonny Jim!
Or thae’ll spuyl a good shute, does-ta see, does-ta see,
Thae’ll spuyl a good shute, does-ta see.”
Cousin Dick says aw’ve heawses, an’ land, an’ some gowd,
An’ he’s plann’d it so weel, dun yo’ see!
When we’re wed he’ll ha’ th’ heawses new-fettled an’ sowd,
But aw think he may let um a-be, a-be,
Sly Dicky may let um a’be.
Ned’s just volunteer’d into th’ “roifle recruits,”
An’ a dashin’ young sodjur is he;
If his gun’s like his een, it’ll kill where it shoots,
But aw’ll mind as they dunnot shoot me, shoot me,
Aw’ll mind as they dunnot shoot me.
He sidles i’ th’ lone, an’ he frimbles at th’ yate,
An’ he comes as he coom no’ for me;
He spers for eawr John, bo’ says nought abeawt Kate,
An’ just gi’es a glent wi’ his ee, his ee,
An’ just gi’es a glent wi’ his ee.
He’s tall an’ he’s straight, an’ his curls are like gowd,
An’ there’s summat so sweet in his ee,
'At aw think i’ my heart, if he’d nobbut be bowd,
He needna’ quite let me a-be, a-be,
He needna’ quite let me a-be.