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Edwin Waugh

(LANCASHIRE)

THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' MINE

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TH' SWEETHEART GATE

Он, there's mony a gate eawt ov eawr teawn-end,

But nobbut one for me;

It winds by a rindlin' wayter side,
An' o'er a posied lea,

It wanders into a shady dell;

An' when aw 've done for th' day, Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine, Beawt walkin' deawn that way.

It's noather garden, nor posied lea,

Nor wayter rindlin' clear; But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook, An' my true love lives theer.

It's olez summer where th' heart 's content, Tho' wintry winds may blow;

An' there's never a gate 'at 's so kind to th' fuut,

As th' gate one likes to go.

When aw set off o' sweetheartin,' aw 've
A theawsan' things to say;

But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top
It drives 'em o' away;

An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass,
It sets my heart a-jee ;-

Oh, there's summut i' th' leet o' yon two blue e'en

That plays the dule wi' me!

When th' layrock's finished his wark aboon,
An' laid his music by,

He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops
Till dayleet stirs i' th' sky.
Though Matty sends me away at dark,
Aw know that hoo's reet full well;
An' it 's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass,
No mortal tung can tell!

Aw wish that Candlemas day were past,
When wakin' time comes on;

An' aw wish that Kesmass time were here,
An' Matty an' me were one.

Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'erThis maunderin' to an' fro;

That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An' stop at neet an' o'.

OWD PINDER

OWD Pinder were a rackless foo, An' spent his days i' spreein' ; At th' end ov every drinkin'-do,

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He're sure to crack o' deein';

'Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon; Aw's never live to trail 'em ;

My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune,
An' th' wynt begins to fail 'em!

"Eawr Matty's very fresh an' yung ;
'T would ony mon bewilder;
Hoo'll wed again afore it's lung,
For th' lass is fond o' childer;
My bit o' brass 'll fly, -yo'n see,
When th' coffin-lid has screen'd me ;
It gwos again my pluck to dee,

An' lev her wick beheend me.

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"Nay, nay," said he, "my fuddle 's done;

We're partin' t' one fro' t' other; So, promise me that when a 'm gwon, Thea 'll never wed another!"

"Th' owd tale," said hoo, an' laft her stoo,

"It's rayley past believin';
Thee think o' th' world thea 'rt goin' to,
An' leave this world to th' livin' ;
What use to me can deead folk be?
Thae's kilt thisel' wi spreein' ;
An' iv that's o' thae wants wi' me,
Get forrud wi' thi deein' !"

He scrat his yed, he rubb'd his e’e,
An' then he donn'd his breeches ;
"Eawr Matty gets as fause," said he,
"As one o' Pendle witches;
Iv ever aw 'm to muster wit,

It mun be now or never;
Aw think aw 'll try to live a bit;
It would n't do to lev her!"

Samuel Lapcock

(LANCASHIRE)

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God bless thee, love, aw 'm fain tha 'rt come,
Just try an' mak thisel awhoam:
What ar 't co'd ?

Tha 'rt loike thi mother to a tee,
But tha's thi feyther's nose, aw see,
Well, aw 'm blow'd!

Come, come, tha need n't look so shy,
Aw am no' blackin' thee, not I;
Settle deawn,

An' tak this haup'ney for thisel',
There's lots o' sugar-sticks to sell
Deawn i' th' teawn.

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Dead oak! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,
Speak with strange tongues in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now!

Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspir'd by thy renown,
Shall future patriots rise to fame,
And many a sun go down.

A POET'S EPITAPH

STOP, mortal! Here thy brother lies
The poet of the poor.

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor;

His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace—and the grave. Sin met thy brother everywhere!

And is thy brother blam'd ?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.

The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or hate;
But, honoring in a peasant's form

The equal of the great,

He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes
The poor man's little, more;
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes
From plunder'd labor's store.

A hand to do, a head to plan,

A heart to feel and dare

Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are.

THE BUILDERS

SPRING, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;

Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith. "Ye hills, put on your gold."

The song of Homer liveth,

Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread.

But Babylon and Memphis

Are letters traced in dust: Read them, earth's tyrants! ponder well The might in which ye trust!

They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.

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