TH' SHURAT WEAVER'S SONG. {4}
BY SAMUEL LAYCOCK.
TUNE--"Rory O'More."
Confound it! aw ne'er wur so woven afore;
My back's welly brocken, mi fingers are sore;
Aw've been starin' an' rootin' amung this Shurat,
Till aw'm very near getten as bloint as a bat.
Aw wish aw wur fur enough off, eawt o'th road,
For o' weavin' this rubbitch aw'm getten reet sto'd;
Aw've nowt i' this world to lie deawn on but straw,
For aw've nobbut eight shillin' this fortnit to draw.
Neaw, aw haven't mi family under mi hat;
Aw've a woife and six childer to keep eawt o' that;
So aw'm rayther amung it just neaw, yo may see--
Iv ever a fellow wur puzzle't, it's me!
Iv aw turn eawt to steal, folk'll co' me a thief;
An' aw conno' put th' cheek on to ax for relief;
As aw said i' eawr heawse t'other neet to mi wife,
Aw never did nowt o' this mak' i' my life.
O dear! iv yon Yankees could nobbut just see,
Heaw they're clemmin' an' starvin' poor weavers loike me,
Aw think they'd soon sattle their bother, an' strive
To send us some cotton to keep us alive.
There's theawsan's o' folk, just i'th best o' their days,
Wi' traces o' want plainly sin i' their faze;
An' a futur afore 'em as dreary an' dark;
For, when th' cotton gets done, we's be o' eawt o' wark.
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