Th' Sun Gardens At Falinge Poem by William Baron

Ther's a grond little spot in this owd teawn uv eawrs,—
A pratty an' cosy retreat,
Wheer ther's velvetty lawns, thickly bordered wi fleawers,
An' everything's luvly an' sweet.
A spot wheer Dame Natur's arrayed in hur best,—
Wheer th' surreawndin's raise feelin's o' joy i' one's breast,
Eh! ther's no place i' th' Borough, for quateness an' rest,
To compare wi' th' Sun Gardens at Falinge!

Yo 'at's closed up i 'th' factory or th' workshop o th' day,
An' languish for th' want o' fresh air,
When yo've finished yor labour at neet, mek yor way
To this spot so delightful an' fair.
If yo're jaded an' weary wi' strife an' turmoil,
Dunnot ceawer i' th' heawse-nook till yo wither an' spoil,
Tek a stroll to this oasis i 'th' desert o' toil—
To th' bonny Sun Gardens at Falinge !

If th' health-laden breezes 'at's wafted fro' th' moors
Wilno' act as a tonic, now't will!
They lick ony fizzic, an' wark wondrous cures,
An,' what's better, they send in no bill.
Yo may boast abeawt Blackpool for air 'at con brace,
But yo 'at want th' colour browt back to yor face,
Yo'll find quite as good, an' a far chepper place,
If yo'll gooa to th' Sun Gardens at Falinge!

Altho' in its praises no poets hev sung—
Afore this poor tribute o' mine,
Ther's no deawt abeawt it—it's th' teawn's finest lung,
Sooa surely it merits a line.
Yo con bask theer i' th' sunshine, or sit i' th' cool shade,
Till yo fancy yorsels i' some sweet fairy glade,
Yor cares 'll soon vanish,—yor gloomy thowts fade,
As yo rest i' th' Sun Gardens at Palinge.