A Lincolnshire Letter

Continuing with the theme of Lincolnshire dialect poetry from my previous entry I have another Lincolnshire dialect poem to share. This is also by Mabel Peacock, mentioned in my last entry.

A Lincolnshire Letter

By Mabel Pecock

Dick, thoo's o'must forgotten th'owd plaace, I'm thinkin' noo.

Dot mind'st we plaay'd i' th' crewyard, an' rid o' th' red poll-coo,

Wi' a bit o' band fer a bridle? An' Dick, dost te mind thoo was scarr'd

When I call'd up th' pigs to eeat thee, if iver we went thrif th' yard?

Dost mind 'at we went to catch bu-heads wi' a tar'mal line an' a preg

Thoo stoal fra oot 'n th' oat-stack, an' the nettles tang'd thy leg,

An' I tell'd thee it was a judgement fer steealin' yon preg fer me? - 

I'm thinkin' Dick, 'at offens I was straange an' hard o' thee.

Dost mind owd Drummer, an' Blackb'd an white-faaced foal, an' mare

'At feyther bowt o' th' Squire an' sell'd at the' 'tAndra Fair?

Well, things is strange an' chaanged, Dick; Miss Kaate an' the Squire's deed,

An' yung Squire's gotten great lads o' hes awn, An' he's getting graay hairs i' this head.

An' parson, he's dun up the ch'ech, Dick, i-stead o' yon brown pew.

Wheare we crack'd wer nuts i' dooor-sneck, an' plaay'd marbils an' read yon taale.

O' th' she-beear swallerin' all them bairns, an' Jonah 'at liv'd i' a whaale.

Th' esh tree 'at grew i' th' hoss-cloase blew up i' th' wind last fall,

An' Polly - thoo hesn't forgotten - she's wedded and widder'd an' all;

Foaks ses she'd ha' dun a deal better, to take thee i'stead o' her Jim;

Bud all's fer th' best, an' she's gotten good riddence an' shuttence o' him.

It's thotty year sin thoo went, Dick, cum next own Lammas-daay-

Tho'ty year sin' thoo'd wo'ds wi her, an' took off to Americaay

An' mebbe if thoo cum'd back, Dick, to sea th'owd toon an' plaace,

I shouldn't knaw it was thoo, Dick, an' shouldn't remember thy faace.

An' 'Mericaay's 'underds an' 'underds o' miles awaay ower sea fra here,

An' mebbe I shouldn't fin thee, Dick, if I went to seek tha theare.

Thoo'll ha gotten new waays an speaks, Dick, 'at I shouldn't undetstand, -

Bud if 'Mericaay is far awaay ther's a kingdom nigh at hand.

We mun mind an' get up theare, Dick, we mun mind an' get up theare,

an' then thoo'll tell me all, Dick, thoo'd dun I' tho'ty year - 

We'll just be bairns together, Dick, together thoo an' me; -

When I think o' seein' thee, why Dick, I'm o'must wanting to dee!

Ok, just wanted to share with the world a poem I came across today. I'm currently attending a course relating to the Lincolnshire Dialect, having been born and brought up in Lincolnshire I decided it would be interesting and I have not been let down.

Anyway as part of this short course we have been looking at poetry written in the Lincolnshire dialect. Today's offering, which I have to look at for next week's session is a piece by Mabel Peacock called Lincolnshire Poacher and I felt it was too good not to share. I only hope that in next week's class I'm not going to find someone has printed out this blog entry, especially as someone today did turn up with an article our tutor had done lol.

Lincolnshire Coat of Arms

Lincolnshire Poacher

By Mabel Peacock

The doctor's hev gi'en mea ower:

Thaay tell me I mun dee

I' th' fower stoane wall o' a prison,

Wheare there's nowt - not a flower nor a tree;

I' the fower stoane walls o' a prison

Wheare a daisy'll niver blaw

An' nobbud gress i' the flat stoanes

An bits o' moss'll graw

I'm not afear o' deein'

But I wants to hear agean

Th' wind i' the tops o' the raain

Wheare it cums doon streight fra 'eaven;

I want to hear th' call

O' th' pyewipes i' the marsh land

An' th' craws ahind the ploo.

But thaay saay them daays is ower

An' dun her good an' all;

I've nowt bud liggin' here waaitin'

An' deein' left to do.

Th' parson hes beeen to sea mea

Wi' a straange queer taale to tell,

O' a narrer rough road to 'eaven

An' a straight smooth waay to hell;

Bud ah think if the Loord war sarten

'At 'E wanted us up abuv

He'd a kep is roads a bit better - 

An' 'ow can God be luv'

If He maade th' divil an all them things

'Ats creeapin' an' crawlin' beloa.

Wheare parson saays, 'at unchristened bairns

An' mo'derers an' sich like goa?

I'm not agooin' to beleave it

O' him 'at maade ivrythin'

An' set th' sun to shine i' th' sky

An larnt th' bods to sing;

But I'd rayther be doom wheare th' fire

An' brimstun foriver bons

An' just goa round wi' a bucket

An' give fook drinks be to'ons - 

then sit i' yon straaaight made 'eaven,

Whear saaints an' Aangels sing.

An' niver 'ear a pheasant craw

Nor th' skirr o' a partridge wing;

Whear ther' isn't a bank nor a plantin side

Wheare rabbits cum oot an' plaay

An' stamp wi' ther' feet o' a moonleet neet,

Wheare its warm o' th' cowdest daay;

An' th' otchins ligs hid i' winter - 

Ther's nowt like this ah doot - 

Why them at gits sent oop to' heaven

Mun bea stolled when a weeeks runn'd oot.

It's a weary while I've been liggin'

Wi'  me faace to a prison wall,

But ah knaw ootside th' black 'eads cry

An' it's Spring an' th' cuckoos call: - 

I'm not afeard o' deein'

But I straangely wants to sea

The' sun cum oop ower Ranthhrup

Ageean afore ah dee.

 

 

Lincolnshire Flag