Phases of Distress: Lancashire Rhymes

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J. Heywood, 1864 - Dialect poetry, English - 105 pages
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Page 78 - ut wortchin' men Should be poor things to pet 'un feed! Ther 's some to th' Bastile han to goo, To live o' th' rates they'n help'd to pay ; An' some get dow * to help 'em thro', And some are ta'en, or sent away. Whot is ther here, 'ut one should live, Or wish to live, weigh'd deawn wi' grief, Thro' weary weeks an' months, 'ut give Not one short heawr o
Page 5 - An' me an' mother then wur left ; For these last three mi mother 's bin O' th' use o' her reet arm bereft. Mi wage sin' then, yo seen, 's kept two, An' so, yo 're sure we 'n had no fat ; We 'n ne'er complain'd, we 'n made it do ; Bo
Page 59 - God above, alone to-day Areawt i'th broad, green fields aw've come Aw want a twothri words to say, Aw shouldno like to say awhoam. Mi heart's too full, an...
Page 13 - What passin' fingers thro' mi yure, What neighsy fun witheawt a check, What rowlin' o'er an' o'er o' th' flure ! An' th' wife looks on wi' glist'nin' ee, An smile 'ut dhrives o care away ; Heaw preawd hoo feels, it's plain to see, I' watchin' th' childher romp an' play. When sleep is sattlin...
Page 24 - 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 a-whoam. Mi little savins soon wur' done, An' then aw sowd mi two-three things, — Mi books an' bookcase, o are gone, — Mi mother's picther, too, fun
Page 12 - ull romp up on mi knee, An' th' next between my legs 'ull get, An' th' owdest in his cheer 'ull be Hutcht close as it con weel be set. What merry laughs, what lispins then, O' wondhrous things they'n chanced to see; What kisses reawnd an
Page 91 - s hard to see, An' very hard to battle thro' ; A gradely plague it 's bin to me — It's been a gradely blessin' too. SEWIN'-CLASS SONG. BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK. COME lasses, let's cheer up an' sing ; it 's no use lookin' sad, We 'll mak eawr sewin'-schoo...
Page 88 - Eawr mill's bin stondin' idle yon For these last eighteen months, or mooar. We walk abeawt i' th' leet o' th' day F clooas ut sumdy else has bowt; Think o'er it when an' heaw we may, We're like to own it's up to nowt. To thrust to sumdy else for bread, An' by th' relief keep torin' on, Maks honest folk to hang their yead, An' crushes th' heart o' th

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