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Lancashire Songs

Chapter 13: WHILE TAKIN’ A WIFT O’ MY PIPE.
By Edwin Waugh
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Poetry

About This Book

A collection of short songs and ballads written in a regional northern dialect that captures everyday rural and working-class life through domestic scenes, courtship, local characters, celebrations, and moments of hardship. The verse mixes humor and sentiment, employing conversational rhythms, refrains, and vivid local idiom to render communal ties, seasonal chores, and small pleasures. Arranged as brief lyric pieces, the poems alternate playful storytelling, moral reflection, and musical choruses that evoke the sounds and social routines of village life.

WHILE TAKIN’ A WIFT O’ MY PIPE.

While takin’ a wift o’ my pipe tother neet, A thowt trickled into my pate, That sulkin’ becose everything isn’t sweet, Is nought but a foolish consate; Iv mon had bin made for a bit of a spree, An’ th’ world were a marlockin’ schoo’, Wi’ nought nobbut heytin’, an’ drinkin’, an’ glee, An’ haliday gam to go through, He’d sicken afore His frolic were o’er, An’ feel he’d bin born for a foo’.
Poor crayter, he’s o’ discontentment an’ deawt, Whatever his fortin may be; He’s just like a chylt at goes cryin’ abeawt, “Eawr Johnny’s moor traycle nor me;” One minute he’s trouble’t, next minute he’s fain, An’ then, they’re so blended i’ one, It’s hard to tell whether he’s laughin’ through pain, Or whether he’s peawtin’ for fun;— He stumbles, an’ grumbles, He struggles, an’ juggles,— He capers a bit,—an’ he’s gone.
It’s wise to be humble i’ prosperous ways, For trouble may chance to be nee; It’s wise for to struggle wi’ sorrowful days Till sorrow breeds sensible glee; He’s rich that, contented wi’ little, lives weel, An’ nurses his little to moor; He’s weel off ’at’s rich, iv he nobbut can feel He’s brother to thoose that are poor; An’ to him ’at does fair, Though his livin’ be bare, Some comfort shall olez be sure.
We’n nobbut a lifetime a-piece here below, An’ th’ lungest is very soon spent; There’s summat aboon measur’s cuts for us o’, An’ th’ most on ’em nobbut a fent; Lung or short, rough or fine, little matter for that, We’n make th’ best o’th stuff till it’s done, An’ when it leets eawt to get rivven a bit, Let’s darn it as weel as we con; When th’ order comes to us To doff these owd clooas, There’ll surely be new uns to don.