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What Could Aw Say?
by William Baron - ‘Bill o’ Jack’s’ (1865 – 1927)
(From “Echos from the Loom”). From ‘A Lancashire Garland’, Selected and Edited by G. Halstead Whittaker, Second Impression, 1936, printed at Elipse Works, Stalybridge by Geo. Whittaker & Sons.
William Baron was born and lived in Blackpool until he was five, when he moved to Blackburn and became a factory lad at the age of 12. His brother, John T. Baron, wrote for the Blackburn Times, so William began contributing to the Blackburn Standard. His first book, ‘Bits o’ Broad Lancashire’ paid tribute to ‘the great trinity’ of Waugh, Laycock and Brierley. In later life he moved to Rochdale, publishing a monthly dialect journal, and died there in 1927. Like many other dialect poets he also wrote in Standard English. (These notes come from ‘A Lancashire Garland’).
The poem is an example of male dialect writers ‘putting words’ into the mouths of female characters, though charmingly in my judgement. There are probably no words here that need explanation, but you can always go to the Glossary. Further information and poems by William Baron can be found here. What Could Aw Say? by William Baron (‘Bill o’ Jack’s’)
Aw’d just stopped to rest me, a bit past th’ owd farm;
For t’ basket wur heavy, an’ t’ weather wur warm.
Aw wur listenin’ to t’ woodlark i’ t’ thicket beyond;
While t’ sunbeams danced gaily on t’ surface o’ t’ pond.
But o of a sudden a footstep drew near;
An’ when aw look reawned me blithe Roger wur theer,
He smiled – eh, so kindly, an’ bid me “Good day!”
Then he axed to goo wi’ me – an’ what could aw say?
When aw stooped down for t’ basket – “Howd on theer,” said he;
“Aw’ll carry it for tha – tha’rt tired, aw con see.”
Sooa he took it up leetly, an’ gaily he talked;
But his language grew sweeter as farther we walked.
When t’ market wur ‘ended, we walked back once mooar,
An’ he clung to me closely till reychin’ th’ heawse door.
Then he axed me to meet him on some other day;
An’ aw raised no objections – for what could aw say?
We met two days after – aw’d gone deawn to t’ well;
But soon aw discovered aw wern’t bi misel’.
Oh! he mun ha’ bin watchin’, for me he espied;
An’ afore aw’d filled t’ buckets he stood bi mi side.
“Eh, do let me drink, lass!” he said wi’ a grin;
But he none wanted t’ wayter – ‘twur me at he’d sin.
An’ while aw hoisted t’ well rope, he chatted quite gay;
Then he bent o’er and kissed me – an’ what could aw say?
That wur but th’ beginnin’ o’ what had to be;
For many a ramble had Roger an’ me.
June changed to December – December to May;
An’ eawr luv, wi’ acquaintance grew stronger each day.
But one neet, when ramblin’ throo t’ meadows so green;
He pressed mi hand softly, an’ glanced i’ mi een
An’ he talked , an’ he pleaded , in such a nice way;
Then he axed me to wed him – an’ what could aw say?
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