There was no seat for my friend, and he stood leaning against
the wall, trying to get her into easy conversation. The little
kitchen looked so cheerless and bare that dull morning that it
reminded me again of a passage in that rude, racy song of the
Lancashire weaver, "Jone o' Greenfeelt"--
"Owd Bill o' Dan's sent us th' baillies one day,
For a shop-score aw owed him, at aw couldn't pay;
But, he were too lat, for owd Billy at th' Bent
Had sent th' tit an' cart, an' taen th' goods off for rent,--
They laft nought but th' owd stoo;
It were seats for us two,
An' on it keawr't Margit an' me.
"Then, th' baillies looked reawnd 'em as sly as a meawse,
When they see'd at o'th goods had bin taen eawt o' th' heawse;
Says tone chap to tother, 'O's gone,--thae may see,'--
Says aw, 'Lads, ne'er fret, for yo're welcome to me!'
Then they made no moor do,
But nipt up wi' owd stoo,
An' we both letten thwack upo' th' flags.
"Then aw said to eawr Margit, while we're upo' the floor,
'We's never be lower i' this world, aw'm sure;
Iv ever things awtern they're likely to mend,
For aw think i' my heart that we're both at th' fur end;
For meight we ban noan,
Nor no looms to weighve on,
An' egad, they're as good lost as fund.
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