Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895.  1895.
Welcome, Bonny Brid!
Samuel Laycock (1825–93)
THA ’rt welcome, little bonny brid,
But should n’t ha’ come just when tha did;
        Toimes are bad.
We ’re short o’ pobbies for eawr Joe,
But that, of course, tha did n’t know,        5
        Did ta, lad?
Aw ’ve often yeard mi feyther tell,
’At when aw coom i’ th’ world misel
        Trade wur slack;
An’ neaw it ’s hard wark pooin’ throo—        10
But aw munno fear thee; iv aw do
        Tha ’ll go back.
Cheer up! these toimes ’ull awter soon;
Aw ’m beawn to beigh another spoon—
        One for thee;        15
An’ as tha ’s sich a pratty face,
Aw ’ll let thee have eawr Charley’s place
        On mi knee.
God bless thee, love, aw ’m fain tha ’rt come,
Just try an’ mak thisel awhoam:        20
        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,        25
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.        30
Aw know when furst aw coom to th’ leet
Aw ’re fond o’ owt ’at tasted sweet;
        Tha ’ll be th’ same.
But come, tha ’s never towd thi dad
What he ’s to co thi yet, mi lad—        35
        What ’s thi name?
Hush! hush! tha munno cry this way,
But get this sope o’ cinder tay
        While it ’s warm;
Mi mother us’d to give it me,        40
When aw wur sich a lad as thee,
        In her arm.
Hush a babby, hush a bee—
Oh, what a temper! dear a-me,
        Heaw tha skroikes!        45
Here ’s a bit o’ sugar, sithee;
Howd thi noise, an’ then aw ’ll gie thee
        Owt tha loikes.
We ’n nobbut getten coarsish fare,
But eawt o’ this tha ’st ha’ thi share,        50
        Never fear.
Aw hope tha ’ll never want a meel,
But allus fill thi bally weel
        While tha ’rt here.
Thi feyther ’s noan bin wed so long,        55
An’ yet tha sees he ’s middlin’ throng
        Wi’ yo’ o:
Besides thi little brother, Ted,
We ’n one up-steers, asleep i’ bed
        Wi’ eawr Joe.        60
But though we ’n childer two or three,
We ’ll make’ a bit o’ reawm for thee—
        Bless thee, lad!
Tha ’rt th’ prattiest brid we han i’ th’ nest;
Come, hutch up closer to mi breast—        65
        Aw ’m thi dad.


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