Billy Winker by John Trafford Clegg "Sketches and Rhymes in the Rochdale dialect" by John Trafford Clegg (Aldine press 1895)

Billy Winker dhrove a cart
For a brewer deawn at Shay ;
Wi full ale barrels he'd start
On a journey every day ;
Empty kegs he'd get fro some,
But o th' shameful tale to tell
When wi th' empties he geet worn
He were oft brimful hissel.

Chorus (slow music) :
Oh, Billy ! What a mon !
Life's last bodle soon tha spent ;
Neaw tha's supped o th' ale tha con ;
It were gettin time tha went.

Customers, ne'er thinkin wrong,
Used to give him 'leawance glasses,
Mild or bitther, wake an' sthrong,
Every mak fro Coop's to Bass's ;
Winker olez sattl't th' lot,
Owt were reet his spark to sleek ;
Jug or bottle, glass or pot,
He could empty deawn his neck ;
Oh, Billy ! &c.

Bill grew fat, an' Bill grew fatther,
Whol his nose wi shame went pink ;
He'd forgetten t' taste o' watther
Sin' he'd taen to mix his dhrink ;
So it is bad habits floor
Th' best o' folk 'at live bi sweat ;
Iv he'd stuck to milk it's sure
Th' fellah could ha bin here yet,
Oh, Billy ! &c.

Billy's maisther, soft i' th' yead,
Co'd his mon in one fine day ;
" Here's nine gallon, lad," he said, " Tak it worn tha's nowt to pay.
Tha con swallow weel, aw think,
Or tha'rt ill belied bi folk ;
Set thysel to side this dhrink,
An' aw'll time thee, just for th' joke."
Oh, Billy ! &c.

Billy thanked him wi a grin,
T' barrel on his shooldher cocked,
Made for worn, an' safely in,
Front an' back his durs he locked,
Tapped his bung, an' deawn he sit,
Bucklin to a neet's hard wark ;
Th' ale so fast began to flit
It were welly gwone bi dark.
Oh, Billy ! &c.



Mornin coome bi nine o' t' clock
Back wi t' barrel Billy went,
Stonnin steady as a rock,
Fillin th' spot wi bermy scent.
" Done bi neaw !" his maisther cries ; "
Billy Winker, tha'rt a cure !"
" Done ! Why, mon, to tell no lies,
For th' supper aw'd to fot some moore."
Oh, Billy ! &c.

" Put thi barrel deawn i' th' nook,"
T' brewer said ;" tha's sattl't me !"
Bill ne'er snapped to tak his hook,
But stood his greaund wi twinklin e'e.
" What art stoppin theere for ? Bowt !"
T' maisther sheauted in a crack ;
" Come !" says Billy ; "is there nowt
At o for bringin th' barrel back ?"

Chorus (solemn) :
Oh, Billy ! What a mon !
Life's last bodle soon tha spent ;
Neaw tha's supped o' th' ale tha con ;
It were gettin time tha went !

Just found this in an ebook on an internet site.

Cheers
Mark