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Lancashire Songs

Chapter 24: TUM RINDLE.
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.

TUM RINDLE.

Air—“Robin Tamson’s Smithy.”

Tum Rindle lope fro’ the chimbley nook, As th’ winter sun wur sinkin’; Aw’m tire’t o’ keawrin’ here i’th smooke, An’ wastin’ time i’ thinkin’: It frets my heart, an’ racks my broo— It sets my yed a-stewin’: A mon that wouldn’t dee a foo, Mun up, an’ start a-doin’!
Then, Mally, reitch my Sunday shoon, To rom my bits o’ toes in; An’ hond mo th’ jug, fro’ top o’th oon,— An’ let mo dip my nose in! An’, come, an’ fill it up again; An’ dunnot look so deawldy; There’s nought can lick a marlock, when One’s brains are gettin’ meawldy.
Aw’ll laithe a rook o’ neighbour lads,— Frisky cowts, an’ bowd uns; An’ let ’em bring their mams an’ dads; We’n have it pranked wi’ owd uns? An’ th’ lads an’ lasses they sha’n sing An’ fuut it, leet an’ limber; An’ Robin Lilter, he shall bring His merry bit o’ timber!
An’ Joe shall come, an’ Jone, an’ Ben; An’ poor owd limpin’ ’Lijah; An’ Mall, an’ Sall, an’ Fan, an’ Nan, An’ curly-pated ’Bijah; An’ gentle Charlie shall be theer; An’ little Dick, the ringer; An’ Moston Sam,—aw like to yer A snowy-yedded singer!
Aw’ll poo mi gronny eawt o’th nook, An’ send for Dolly Maybo’, For, when hoo’s gradely donned, hoo’ll look As grand as th’ queen o’ Shayba; An’ little Nell shall doance wi’ me,— Eawr Nelly’s yung an’ bonny; An’ when aw’ve had a doance wi’ thee, Aw’ll caper wi’ my gronny!
Then, Mally, fill it up again; An’ dunnot look so deawldy; There’s nought can lick a marlock, when One’s brains are gettin’ meawldy! We’re yung an’ hearty; dunnot croak Let’s frisk it neaw, or never; So, here’s good luck to country folk An’ country fun, for ever!

MANCHESTER:
A. IRELAND AND CO., PRINTERS,
PALL MALL COURT.