Classic Poem

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

Our church parson kept tellin' us long,
We should have better times if we'd but hold our tongues.
I've houden 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 backbitin' the de'il,
But he never picked o'er in his life.

We tarried six weeks an' thought every day were t'last.
We tarried and shifted till now we're quite fast.
We lived on nettles while nettles were good,
And Waterloo porridge were best of us food.
I'm tellin' you true, I can find folk enew,
That er livin' no better than me.

Old Bill o' Dan's sent bailiffs one day,
For a shop score I owed him that I couldn't pay,
But he were too late, for old Bill o' Bent
Had sent horse and cart and taen goods for rent.
We had nowt but a stoo', that wur a seat for two,
An' on it cowered Margit an' me.

The bailiffs looked round as sly as a mouse,
When they saw aw things wur taen out o' t'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 nipped up t'owd stoo',
An' we both went wack upo' t'flags.

I get howd o' Margit, for hoo're stricken sick,
Hoo sed hoo ne'er had such a bang sin hoo wur wick.
The bailiffs scoured off wi' owd stoo' on their backs,
They would not have cared had they brokken our necks.
They're mad at owd Bent cos he's taen goods for rent,
And wur ready to flay us alive.

I sed to our Margit as we lay upo' t'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 i' my heart we both at far end.
For meat we have none, nor looms to weave on,
Egad, they're as weel lost as found.’

Then I geet up my piece, an' I took it 'em back,
I scarcely dare speak, mester lookit so black.
He said, ‘You wur o'erpaid last time you coom.’
I said, ‘If I wur, 'twas for weavin' bout loom.
In the mind as I'm in, I'll ne'er pick o'er again,
For I've woven mysel to t'fur end.’

Then aw coom out o' t'warehouse, an' left him to chew that,
When aw thought again, aw wur vext till aw sweat.
To think we mun work to keep him an' aw t'set,
All the days o' my life, an' die in their debt.
But I'll give o'er this trade and work wi' a spade,
Or go an' break stones upo' t'road.

Our Margit declares if hoo'd cloas to put on,
Hoo'd go up to Lundun an' see t'young Queen,
An' if things didn't alter when hoo had been,
Hoo swears hoo would fight, blood up to t'een.
Hoo's nought agen t'Queen, but hoo likes a fair thing,
An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.