Corry's Rat

It  wis hiteen sivinty, th' twenty-forst e Mae,
Me en Harry Gibson will not forget th' dae,
Wen aw wis bissy shiften ewae freh Eden Plaice
Up te little Tanfield-but ye shill heer me caise.

Spoken-Wen ye heer me sad story, aw waint be sorprised te see th' teers run doon yor cheeks th' size e cocoanuts, aw cud crie ivory time aw think eboot it; aw wad tee, but aw's flade onybody sees me, so aw'll just sing ye a ditty.

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Stop 'em thare, catch 'em, thae awl began te shoot
Th' drivor en hees pasingors aul com tumelen oot;
If ivor aw shud shift eguain, aw'll shift them we me hat,
Aw'll nivor more be flade to deed we Mistor Corry's rat.

Spoken- Aw's e terribl chep for floor shoas, but thae alwis heh thim e th' rang plaice;  thae shud heh thim e th' tap room-that wid just suite Tommy Martin en me; but thor's gan te be nowt but pultry it th' next floor show; be shoor en cum, en aw'll sing ye—

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We started then e Shiften we shifted fower lode,
E cumen doon aw saw sum bords sitten on th' rode;
Thae wor sitten feeden, th' rat thae nivor seed,
So thae aul floo up tegither on thae flade th' rat te deed.

Spoken—Aw saw e flock e sparrows geten thor brickfist off sum muck thit sum e th' horses left lyen on th' rode.  Thae nivor stord te we gat reet te them, en off thae went, en so did sum body else; th' bords floo nee sharper than th' rat went, so aw started te sing-

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Th' galewae lade hees lugs back, en cockt hees tail up tee,
Aw saw be hees ipperince thit he wis gan te flee;
Aw was th' forst thit tumild oot-aw fell emang th' weels-
Ye wide laft if ye'd been thare, te see me coup me creels.

Spoken—Ye tuak eboot yor mountybanks tornin summorsets en dabing on thor feet! Aw divint naw hoo mony times aw torned owere, but aw wis ganen ower th' sivinth time when aw lost me senses. Aw mite gan ower mony e time eftor that, but a dabd on me heed en noct aul th' wull off th' top.  Wen aw com eroond aw started te sing-

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Aw teuk me left leg e me hand, en did me best te wauk.
Wen aw feel in we Harry he ad ardly strength te tauk;
Th' blood wis runnen doon hees fuaice-'twis pitiful te see-
En wen aw tried te lift 'im up, he sade, O let me be.

Spoken-Poor Harry! Aw wis sorry for 'im, he wis shoor te be stupified-we th' sharp ride en th' sudint stop.  If th' rat had been runen for th' Derby; it wid been like King Charles-it wid guain fors past th' post we nee jock on its back; poor me, th'e jock, wis lyen ootside th' ring singen-

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Hee's fuaice wis full e scratches; he sais, Aw've smasht me rist.
Aw teld him if we'd buaith been kild, we nivor wad been mist.
Then Mistress Watson at th' farm she cried oot What's th' mattor?
Aw sais, Plees, ma'am just be se kind is fetch e drink e wattor.

Spoken- Aw sade wattor, but aw ment whisky; but she browt wattor.  Aw tost it aul ower hes heed en fuaice, en wen aw browt him eboot we started te sing-

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Thanks to Mistor Emory, the memorisen man,
For stoppen Corry's galewae he had e clivor plan;
He stopt it in e moment, en th' fokes began to stare,
En thanks te Mistor Corry, but aw'll hev hees rat nee mare.

Spoken—He saw th' rat cumen, en he set hiself e th' middle e th' rode en shooted. Fixt-you can't stor, It wis troo; It stud tiv aw teuk im be th' heed, en aw teukt yem backwards; aw muaid e Haly-e-loo-lye on im.---
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One Good Source:Polisses & Candymen, The Complete Works of Tommy Armstrong, The Pitman Poet,  ed. Ross Forbes, TommyArmstrong Memorial Trust, 1987.