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.

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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.

 

 

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