Th' Surat Weyver's Song Poem by William Billington

We're warkin lads frae Lankysheer,
An' gradely daycent fooak;
We'n hunted weyvin far an' near,
An' couldn't ged a strook;
We'n sowd booath table, clock, an' cheer,
An' popt booath shoon an' hat,
An' borne wod mortal man could bear,
Affoor we'd weyve Surat!

It's neaw aboon a twelmon gone
Sin't 'crisis' coom abeawt,
An' t' poor's tried hard to potter on
Tell t' rich ud potter eawt;
We'n left no stooan unturn'd, nod one,
Sin' t' trade becoom so flat,
Bud neaw they'n browt us too id, mon,
They'n med us weyve Surat!

Aw've yerd fooak talk o' t' treydin mill,
Un pickin oakum too;
Bud transpooartation's nod as ill
As weyvin rotten Su!
It's been too monny for eawr Bill,
Un aw'm as thin as a latt,
Bud iv wey wi' t' Yankees hed eawr will,
We'd hang 'em i' t' Surat!

It's just like rowlin stooans up t' broo,
Or twisting rooaps o' sand;
Yo piece yo'r twist, id comes i' two,
Like cobwebs i' yor hand;
Aw've wark'd an' woven like a foo!
Tell aw'm as weak as a cat,
Yet after o as aw could do,
Aw'm konkurd bi t' Surat!

Eawr Mally's i' t' twist fever yon—
Mi feyther's getten bagg'd;
Strange tacklers winnod teck him on,
Becose his cooat's so ragg'd!
Mi mother ses it's welly done—
Hoo'l petch id wi' her brat,
An' meck id fit for ony mon
Wod roots among t' Surat.

Aw wonst imagined Deeoth's a very
Dark un dismal face;
Bud neaw aw fancy t' cemetery
Is quite a pleasant place!
Bud sin' wey took eawr Bill to bury,
Aw've often wish'd Owd Scrat
Ud fetch o t' bag-o-tricks, an lorry
To hell wi o t' Surat!