The Rise in Coals

The snaw fell doon fast, and poor folk's seem'd shy,
Clos'd up in their hyems as the storm pelted by;
And they wish'd roond their nuiks such times suen wad pass,
For provisions was dear, and they'd sav'd little brass.
And as money and firing war meltin' away.
There seems nowt but caud drowps for uz sons o' clay.
The woman foaks flew te fill their coal holes,
To the depoe, but hang them, they've rais'd wor sma' coals.

O what a price for sma' coals,
Hinny how, they've raised wor sma' coals.

Goshcab, what caud weather, wor Dicky did shoot-
Muther, fetch some coals in, for wor fire's gawn oot;
Some coals, lad, thou's fond, and she gyep'd all amazed,
Thou maun eat less, and drink less, the sma' coals are raised.
But, hinnies, that's nowt, for aw's still sair beset,
Coals is thrippence a beetmint, and nyen for te get:
The only bit comfort maw aud body consoles
They've tuen off at last when they raised wor sma' coals.

O what a price for sma' coals, etc.

Aw went te the depoe, aw think that's the nyem,
And aw stood tiv aw shivered, aw really thowt shem:
Amang sic a gang had ye seen me that day,
Thou'd mebbies come suener than aw did away.
They fit like fair deevils and far warse aw's sure,
For they ken'd what it was when the fire got poor;
But if poor folk had sense they'd fill a' thor holes
Wi' cinders, to spite them for raisin' the coals.

O what a price for sma' coals, etc.

Yen jaws aboot seets, but aw gyep'd wi' surprise
Te see sic a queer squad wi' maw pair o' eyes;
There was scrushin an' pushin' sic a mixure o' folks,
Wiv sweels, pillow slips, cuddy cairts, and lang pokes;
But the aud wives bang'd a' as they scream'd wi' thor tins,
Canny man, gis a pennorth te warm wor aud shins;
Aw've tetties te boil,-says another aw've stew,
Canny man, put your shuil in and gis a wee few.

O what a price for sma' coals, etc.

Some keelmen 'bove the bridge, aw heard an aud wife say,
Had lang been frozen up an' scairsh could get away,
They thowt their fuddlin days were surely duen at last,
So they dooon upon their knees te myek up for the past.
How, marrows, cries a bullly, aw've an idea a some price,
We'll find Sir John Franklin if we howk throo the ice'
First, let us find the North Powl, it's some way aboot,
Then get on the top on't an' give him a shoot.

Aw'll tell him they've raised wor sma' coals, etc.

They ken hoo te swindel poor folks wi' their loads,
Pretendin they're raised and the snaw stop'd the roads;
But a pitman tell'd me te stop up sic jaw,
For it niver rained hailstones nor snaw'd doon belaw.
And he said if thou'll tyek advice frae a fuel,
When there's a greet vast o' weather, get thaw holes chock full;
And while thou's warmin thy shins by the fire, as the snaw
Drops doon the lum, think O' pintmen belaw.

For they toil hard an' sair for sma' coals, etc.

-Corvan