Philip Clough's Tale
(What Weary Toimes)
by Joseph Ramsbottom
Eh! Dear! what weary toimes are these,
There’s nob’dy ever knew ’em wur’;
For honest wortchin’ folk one sees
By scores reawd th’ Poor-law Office dur.
It’s bad to see’t, bo wus a dyeal,
When one’s sel helps to mak’ up th’ lot;
We’n nowt to do, we darno steyle,
Nor con we beighl an empty pot.
Aw hate this pooin oakum wark,
An ’breakin’ stones to get relief;
To be a pauper – pity’s mark –
Ull break an honest heart wi’ grief.
We’re mixt wi th’ stondin paupers, too,
Ut winno wortch’ when wark’s t’ be had;
Con this be reet for them to do,
To tak no thowt o’ good or bad?
To wortch wi’ paupers aw’d noa do’t,
Aw’d starve until aw sunk to th’ floore;
Bo th’ little childher bring me to’t –
One’s like to bend for them, yo’re sure.
Heawever hard things are or queer,
We’re loike to tak ’em as they come;
For th’ cravin’ stomach’s awlus theer,
An’ childher conno clem awhoam.
When wark fell off aw did mi best
To keep misel an’ fam’ly clear;
Mi wants aw’ve never forrad prest,
For pity is a thing to fear.
Mi little savin’s soon wur’ done,
An’ then aw sowd mi toothri things –
Mi books an’ bookcase, o are gone, –
Mi mother’s picther, too, fun’ wings.
A bacco box wi two queer lids,
Sent whoam fro’ Indy by John Bell;
Mi fuschia plants an’ pots, mi brids
An’ cages, too, aw’re forced to sell.
Mi feyther’s rockin’ cheer's gone,
Mi mother’s corner cubbart, too;
An’ th’ eight days clock has followed, mon;
What con a hongry body do?
Aw’ve gan mi little garden up,
Wi’ mony a pratty fleawr an’ root;
Aw’ve sowd mi gronny’s silver cup,
Aw’ve sowd mi uncle Robin’s flute;
Aw’ve sowd mi tables, sowd mi beds,
Mi bedstocks, blankets, sheets as weel;
Oitch neet o’ sthraw we rest eawr yeads,
An’ we an’ God known what we feel.
Aw’ve sowd until aw’ve nowt to sell,
An’ heaw we’n clemm’d past o’ belief;
An’ wheer to goo aw couldno tell,
Except to th’ “Booard” to get relief.
Ther wur no wark, for th’ mill wur stopt;
Mi childher couldno’ dee, yo known:
Aw’m neaw a pauper, ‘cose aw’ve dhropt
To this low state o’ breakin’ stone.
Bo once aw knew a diff’rent day,
When ev’ry heawr ud comfort bring;
Aw earn’d mi bread an’ paid mi way, –
Aw wouldno stoop to lord or king.
Aw felt mi independence then,
Mi sad dependance neaw aw know;
Shall e’er aw taste thoose jeighs agen,
Or e’er live thro’ these days o’ woe?