Ammon Wrigley - "An Alehouse Pot"

The following is a transcription of a work by Saddleworth poet Ammon Wrigley (1861-1946).

An Alehouse Pot

Aw wonder what the potter thowt
When first he fashioned thee,
An’ put this hondle on that fits
My finger to a T;
Aw dunnot know but he met think
When first thy shape he planned,
That one fine day theau’d leet o’ me
And try to get me canned.
Theau’d ha’ to try a bit owd love,
An’ theau con start just now,
If sumdy ll nobbut pay for th’ ale,
Aw’ll do mi best shusheaw.
Or he met think some squire’s wife
Would fill thee full o’ milk,
An’ feed her baby on her knee
An’ slart sops deawn her silk;
Or some poor fayther op ith neet
Deawn th’ stairs would weary march,
To mack some cinder tea i’ thee
When th’ bab had th’ ballywarch.
Or he met think some poor old dame
Would sit bi th’ hob at neet,
An’ fill a neetcap, rum and tea,
To warm her honds an’ feet;
Or he met guess, one never knows,
That some teetotal chap
Would fill thee up wi’ traycle drink
Or wayter eaut oth tap.
But fate is th’ same to men an’ pots’
There’s noather knows their lot;
But it did weel when it made thee
A little aleheause pot.
Theau’s had a merry life Aw’ll bet,
An’ yerd some rare tales towd,
When two owd lads were gabbing o’er
Their neighbour foaks ith fowd;
Theau’s had some narrow shaves Aw know,
An’ theau’s been rare an’ feart,
When some owd alecan’s wobbled thee
An’ th’ ale’s run deawn his beart.
Theau’s yerd um fratch o’er politics
When some rough things were said,
And then theau thowt ’at theau wur beawn
At some owd Tory’s yed;
Some oft theau’s yerd those foace uns tell
What horse were beawn to win,
An’ theau’s yerd um curse like blazes
When they’ve been letten in.
Theau’s yerd um bang their fist some oft
When peaunds had gone to grief,
An’ seh th’ jockey wur a wrung un
Ar’ th’ owner wur a thief:
Theau’s yerd foak tell what ale they'll stond
An’ never go no wur,
But theau’s rolled um op oth turnpike
When they gate eaut oth dur.
Theau’s livert eaut some gravel rash,
An’ some black een an’ o’,
An’ mony a yed theau’s beaunced abit
Agen a hard stone wo;
Theau’s made um waddle op an’ deawn,
An’ made some noses red,
Theau’s made um sheaut ith mornin’,
“Hay dear my poor owd yed.”
“Aw’ll be teetotal neaw,” they’ve said,
After their drunken fits,
An’ women oft have coad thee names
An’ wished thee o’ i’ bits;
They munnot play wi’ thee owd pal,
Theau knows a thing or two,
The wisest mon upon this earth,
Theau’ll mack him of.a foo’.
Theau’s seen some changes i’ thi time.
An’ theau could tell a tale,
Oth merry days when theau wur filled
Wi’ reet good honest ale;
An’ it wur tuppence then a pint,
It’s sixpence neaw theau sees,
Aw’! bet theau shames to howd sich stuff
Too weak to fuddle fleas.
An’ neaw an’ then a mon beawt brass
Has had a gill on th’ strap,
An’ sometimes too theau’s seen um stop
A noisy leatheryed’s tap;
Theau yerd um toak when th’ war wur on,
An mack their yeawlin din,
They said they’d mack this country fit
“For heroes to live in.”
It’s hardly fit for dogs just neaw,
For it’s an awful crime
For working men to get a gill
Ten seconds after time;
Theau’s weathered mony a rumpus,
Theau’rt snipped abit Aw see,
Some bowsteryed has knocked too hard
When he wur op oth spree.
Well neaw Aw wish thee weel owd dog,
Aw connut wish thee ill,
Theau’rt empty too an’ Awm some dry,
Aw’Il try another gill;
An, when Aw’ve emptied thee agen
Reet deawn to th’ bottom drop,
Aw hope owd love no careless honds
Will ha’ to wesh thi op.