OWD PINDER were a rackless foo,
An’ spent his days i’ spreein’;
At th’ end ov every drinkin’-do,
He ’re sure to crack o’ deein’;
“Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon;
Aw ’s never live to trail ’em;
My ballis-pipes are eawt o’ tune,
An’ th’ wynt begins to fail ’em!

“Eawr Matty ’s very fresh an’ yung;
’T would ony mon bewilder;
Hoo ’ll wed again afore it ’s lung,
For th’ lass is fond o’ childer;
My bit o’ brass ’ll fly,—yo ’n see,—
When th’ coffin-lid has screen’d me;
It gwos again my pluck to dee,
An’ lev her wick beheend me.

“Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed,
Aw ’m finish’d, to my thinkin’;”
Hoo happ’d him nicely up, an’ said,—
“Thae ’s brought it on wi’ drinkin’!”
“Nay, nay,” said he, “my fuddle ’s done;
We ’re partin’ t’ one fro’ t’ other;
So, promise me that when a ’m gwon,
Thea ’ll never wed another!”

“Th’ owd tale,” said hoo, an’ laft her stoo,
“It ’s rayley past believin’;
Thee think o’ th’ world thea ’rt goin’ to,
An’ leave this world to th’ livin’;
What use to me can deead folk be?
Thae ’s kilt thisel’ wi spreein’;
An’ iv that ’s o’ thae wants wi’ me,
Get forrud wi’ thi deein!”

He scrat his yed, he rubb’d his e’e,
An’ then he donn’d his breeches;
“Eawr Matty gets as fause,” said he,
“As one o’ Pendle witches;
In ever aw ’m to muster wit,
It mun be now or never;
Aw think aw ’ll try to live a bit;
It would n’t do to lev her!”