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Lancashire Songs

Chapter 5: COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE.

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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.

COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM I’ MINE.

Come, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine, An’ lilt away wi’ me; An’ dry that little drop o’ brine, Fro’ th’ corner o’ thi e’e; Th’ mornin’ dew i’th’ heather-bell’s A bonny gem o’ weet; That tear a different story tells,— It pains my heart to see’t.

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

No lordly ho’ o’th’ country-side’s So welcome to my view, As th’ little cottage where abides My sweetheart, kind an’ true; But, there’s a nook beside yon spring, An’ iv thae’ll share’t wi’ me; Aw’ll buy tho th’ prattist gowden ring That ever theaw did see!

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

My feyther’s gan mo forty peawnd, I’ silver an’ i’ gowd; An’ a bonny bit o’ garden greawnd, O’th’ mornin’ side o’th’ fowd; An’ a honsome bible, clen an’ new, To read for days to come;— There’s leaves for writin’ names in, too, Like th’ owd un at’s awhoam.

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

Eawr Jenny’s bin a-buyin’ in, An’ every day hoo brings Knives an’ forks, an’ pots; or irons For smoothin’ caps an’ things; My gronny’s sent a chist o’ drawers, Sunday clooas to keep; An’ little Fanny’s bought a glass For thee an’ me to peep.

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch; Eawr Jem a load o’ coals; Eawr Charlie’s bought some pickters, an’ He’s hanged ’em upo’ th’ woles; Owd Posy’s white-weshed th’ cottage through; Eawr Matty’s made it sweet; An Jack’s gan mo his Jarman flute, To play by th’ fire at neet!

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

There’s cups an’ saucers; porritch-pons, An’ tables, greyt an’ smo’; There’s brushes, mugs, an’ ladin-cans; An eight days’ clock an’ o’; There’s a cheer for thee, an’ one for me, An’ one i’ every nook; Thi mother’s has a cushion on’t— It’s th’ nicest cheer i’th’ rook.

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

My mother’s gan me th’ four-post bed, Wi’ curtains to’t an’ o’; An’ pillows, sheets, an’ bowsters, too, As white as driven snow; It isn’t stuffed wi’ fither-deawn; But th’ flocks are clen an’ new; Hoo says there’s daycent folk i’th’ teawn That’s made a warse un do.

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.

Aw peeped into my cot last neet; It made me hutchin’ fain: A bonny fire were winkin’ breet I’ every window-pane; Aw marlocked upo’ th’ white hearth-stone, An’ drummed o’th’ kettle lid, An’ sung, “My neest is snug an’ sweet, Aw’ll go and fotch my brid!”

So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine.