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Lancashire Songs

Chapter 14: GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE!
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.

GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE!

Jone, lad, though thi hond’s Like reawsty iron to feel, There’s very few i’th lond Aw like to gripe as weel. Thae’ll never dee i’th dumps Becose o’ bein’ poor, Thae good owd king o’ trumps,— God bless thi silver yure!
Poo up to th’ side o’th hob, An’ rest thi weary shanks, An’ dunnot fret thy nob Wi’ fortin’ an’ her pranks; These folk at’s preawd an’ rich May tremble at her freawn, They’n further far nor sich As thee to tumble deawn.
Theaw never longs for wine, Nor dainties rich an’ rare. For sich a life as thine Can sweeten simple fare; Contented wi’ thi meal, Thae’s wit enough to know That daisies liven weel Where tulips connot grow.
An’ though thi cloas are rough, An’ gettin’ very owd, They’n onswer weel enough To keep thi limbs fro’ th’ cowd; A foo would pine away I’ such a suit as thine, But, thaer’t the stuff to may A fustian jacket fine.
A tattered clowt may lap A very noble prize; A king may be, by hap, A beggar i’ disguise. When t’one has laft his feast, An’ t’other done his crust, Then, which is which at last,— These little piles o’ dust?
An’ though thy share o’ life, May seem a losin’ game, Thae’s striven fair i’th strife, An’ kept a daycent aim; No meawse-nooks i’ thi mind, No malice i’ thi breast, Thae’s still bin true an’ kind, An’ trusted fate wi’ th’ rest.
Through trouble, toil, an’ wrung, Thae’s whistle’t at thi wark, An’ wrostle’t life so lung, Thi limbs are gettin stark; But, sich a heart as thine’s A never-failin’ friend; It cheer’s a mon’s decline, An’ keeps it sweet to th’ end.
Thy banner’ll soon be furled, An’ then they’n ha’ to tell, “He travell’t th’ dirty world, An’ never soil’t hissel’!” An’ when aw come to dee, An’ death has ta’en his tow, Aw hope to leet o’ thee,— God bless thi snowy pow!