Jone O'Grinfield

I’m a poor cotton weaver as many one knows,
I’ve nowt to eat i’th house and I’ve worn out my close,
You’d hardly give sixpence for all I have on,
My clogs they are brossen and stockings I’ve none,
You’d think it wur hard to be sent into th’ world,
To clem and do th’ best ot you con.

Our church parson kept telling me long,
We should have better times if we should hold our tongues,
I’ve hooden my tongue till I can hardly draw breath,
I think i’my heart he means to clem me to death,
I know he lives weel by befriending the de’il
But he never picked o’er in his life.

I tarried six week an thought every day wur’t last,
I tarried and shifted till now I’m quite fast,
I lived on nettles when nettles were good,
An Waterloo porridge were best of my food,
I’m telling you trow I can find folks enew
That are living no better then me.

Old Bill o’Dan’s sent bailiffs one day,
For a shop score I owed him that I could not pay,
But he wur too late for old Bill o’Bent
Had sent tit and cart and taen goods for rent,
We had noo but a stoo, that were a seat for two,
And on it cowered Margit and me.

The bailiffs looked round as sly as a mouse,
When they saw aw things were taen out ot house,
Says one to the other all’s gone thou may see,
Aw sed lads never fret you’re welcome to me;
They made no more ado, but nipp’d up th’ owd stoo,
And we both went wack upoth flags.

Aw geet howd o’ Margit for hoo were strucken sick,
Hoo sed hoo ne’er had such a bang since hoo wer wick,
The bailiffs scooted off wi’ owd stoo on their backs,
They would not have cared if they’d brook our necks,
They’re mad at old Bent as he’s taken goods for rent,
And wur ready to flee us alive.

I said to our Margit as we lay upoth floor,
We shall never be lower in this world I am sure,
But if we alter I’m sure we mun mend,
For I think in my heart we are both at far end,
For meat we have none nor looms to weave on,
Egad their as weel lost as found.

Then I geet up my piece and I took it em back,
I scarcely dare speak mester looked so black,
He said you wur o’erpaid last time you coom,
I said if I were ‘twas for weaving bout loom,
In a mind as I’m in I’ll ne’er pick o’er again,
For I’ve woven myself toth’ far end.

Then aw coom out and left him to chew that,
When aw thought again aw wor vext till aw sweat,
To think that we men work to keep them an awta set,
All the day o’ my life and still be in their debt;
So I’ll give o’er trade and work with a spade,
Or go and break stones upoth road.

Our Margit declared if hoo’d clothes to put on,
Hoo’d go up to Lundon and see the big mon,
And if things didn’t alter when hoo had been,
Hoo swears hoo’d feight blood up toth e’en,
Hoo’s nought again the Queen, but likes a fair thing,
As hoo says hoo can tell when hoo’s hurt.