Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895.  1895.
Owd Pinder
Edwin Waugh (1818–90)
OWD PINDER were a rackless foo,
  An’ spent his days i’ spreein’;
At th’ end ov every drinkin’-do,
  He ’re sure to crack o’ deein’;
“Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon;        5
  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;        10
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,        15
  An’ lev her wick beheend me.
“Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed,
  Aw ’m finish’d, to my thinkin’;”
Hoo happ’d him nicely up, an’ said,—
  “Thae ’s brought it on wi’ drinkin’!”        20
“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,        25
  “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’;        30
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,        35
  “As one o’ Pendle witches;
In 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!”        40


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