Welcome, Bonny Brid!

Samuel Laycock (1825â€"93)


THA ’rt welcome, little bonny brid,        
But should n’t ha’ come just when tha did;        
       Toimes are bad.        
We ’re short o’ pobbies for eawr Joe,        
But that, of course, tha did n’t know,           
       Did ta, lad?        

Aw ’ve often yeard mi feyther tell,        
’At when aw coom i’ th’ world misel        
       Trade wur slack;        
An’ neaw it ’s hard wark pooin’ throoâ€"           
But aw munno fear thee; iv aw do        
       Tha ’ll go back.        

Cheer up! these toimes ’ull awter soon;        
Aw ’m beawn to beigh another spoonâ€"        
       One for thee;              
An’ as tha ’s sich a pratty face,        
Aw ’ll let thee have eawr Charley’s place        
       On mi knee.        

God bless thee, love, aw ’m fain tha ’rt come,        
Just try an’ mak thisel awhoam:              
       What ar ’t co’d?        
Tha ’rt loike thi mother to a tee,        
But tha ’s thi feyther’s nose, aw see,        
       Well, aw ’m blow’d!        

Come, come, tha need n’t look so shy,              
Aw am no’ blackin’ thee, not I;        
       Settle deawn,        
An’ tak this haup’ney for thisel’,        
There ’s lots o’ sugar-sticks to sell        
       Deawn i’ th’ teawn.              

Aw know when furst aw coom to th’ leet        
Aw ’re fond o’ owt ’at tasted sweet;        
       Tha ’ll be th’ same.        
But come, tha ’s never towd thi dad        
What he ’s to co thi yet, mi ladâ€"              
       What ’s thi name?        

Hush! hush! tha munno cry this way,        
But get this sope o’ cinder tay        
       While it ’s warm;        
Mi mother us’d to give it me,              
When aw wur sich a lad as thee,        
       In her arm.        

Hush a babby, hush a beeâ€"        
Oh, what a temper! dear a-me,        
       Heaw tha skroikes!              
Here ’s a bit o’ sugar, sithee;        
Howd thi noise, an’ then aw ’ll gie thee        
       Owt tha loikes.        

We ’n nobbut getten coarsish fare,        
But eawt o’ this tha ’st ha’ thi share,              
       Never fear.        
Aw hope tha ’ll never want a meel,        
But allus fill thi bally weel        
       While tha ’rt here.        

Thi feyther ’s noan bin wed so long,              
An’ yet tha sees he ’s middlin’ throng        
       Wi’ yo’ o:        
Besides thi little brother, Ted,        
We ’n one up-steers, asleep i’ bed        
       Wi’ eawr Joe.               60

But though we ’n childer two or three,        
We ’ll make’ a bit o’ reawm for theeâ€"        
       Bless thee, lad!        
Tha ’rt th’ prattiest brid we han i’ th’ nest;        
Come, hutch up closer to mi breastâ€"              
       Aw ’m thi dad.