Ammon Wrigley - "Owd Puddle's Alehouse"

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

Owd Puddle’s Alehouse

Owd Puddle keeps an ale-house ut back o’ Dont’s o’ Ben’s,
He keeps a feightin’ cock un o, twothri feightin’ hens;
He shines just like a raven, he mi weel bi in his prime,
Fur he starts o suppin’ neetcaps everyday ut breakfast time;
His yed’s just like a puddin’, un his bally’s like a drum,
He’s awlus chewin’ bacco, un he likes a sope o’ rum;
He wed “Nan o’ Little Stockings,” hoo’s akin to th’ “Collop” lot,
Thi’ sen hoo likes her short-stuff, un comes eaut rayther wot,—
Owd Puddle ses he’ll tome her, hoo’s getten very bowd,
Hoo toaks eaut ov her turn, un winnot gi’e o’er when towd.
His tapreawm’s hung wi’ bacon un th’ hams ur teed i’ pokes,
Thi’ve swung boath gables croot wi’ pooin’ deawn ut boakes,
Un th’ floor - it’s awlus sanded, un th’ woas un white-wesh on,
Wi’ a cuckoo clock i’th’ corner wi’ boath o’th fingers gone,
Un a reet owd-fashioned picture — Aw know it off bi heart,
“Owd Bullyed” sowd it Puddle for a tanner un a quart,
Thi’ sen it favvers Jesus, but ther’s nobedy knows fur reet,—
Its a felley on a boart wi’ sum mop nails throo his feet,
Thi’re gradely nails un o, if Aw’d a peaund ur two
Thi’d come in handy fur a cote Aw’m mackin’ op i’th’ broo;
Ther’s a posnet op i’th’ nook ut’s pown fere eaut o’ shap,
“Jack o’ Ranter’s” punsed a yer off when Puddle stopped his tap.
Thi’ coan his fourpenny “Floorum,” he lets its taste o’th’ hop,
Un he gi’es it plenty o’ boilin’ for it’s never short o’ top!
Ther’ connot bi noh strunger drink, — just ax owd “Pigeon Jone,”
Fur it lurried him one day a hunderd yard deawn th’ lone!
Ther’s plenty o’ foak un swaggered into th’ tapreawn o’ ther’ toes
Uts gone eaut o’th’ dur agen, sum stylish, o’ther nose!
Its lowert mony o weighver, un beaunced him on his nut,
If yo’ll wrastle Puddle’s fourpenny — Aw”ll bet yoh lawse a thrut!
When “Bet o’ Foo’s” wur wed, thi’ thrut a quart ut wo,
It fot two yard o’ topstones off un th’ hauve ut fence un o;
Un “Yollow-collop,” t’other neet, he wur nobbut feelin’ queer,
He sed — “This gable’s goin’ reawnd, do throw it eaut o’ gear!”
Its nice un warm ut Puddle’s wi’ a greyt turf fire breet,
Un mony o owd hillsider comes a ceawerin’ ut neet.
Ther’s “Billy Blueflea,” that’s a moance, he is sum bad toh nail,
Yoh han to watch him middlin’ tight ur else he’ll sup yoh’r ale,
He’s bin jolloped mony o time, — yoh should yer owd “Noggin’” tell!
He likes his ale does “Blueflea,” un he’s noan bi hissel’.
Ther’s “Joe o’ Gawpin’ Matty’s,” neaw he’s sum bad to leyse,
He’s awlus toakin’ o’er his guts, un pestil, broth, un peys,
Un boils un shuet dumplins,—sum weight o’ thoose he’ll shift,
Un then he'll loase his singlet eaut un ratch hissel un rift.
Ther’s “Powcat,” that’s as big a stracklin’ as ever donneéd a shuff,
As heaw mich drink he swillocks he’s never had enuff,
He tacks it like a deawn-speawt, Aw’m sure he has noh clack,
Sumtimes wi’ getten a tundish un puts him on his back.
“Jack Bledder” sits ut side o’th’ dur, neaw he’s a gradely foo’,
He used to bi a teycher once ut Ginnel Sunday Schoo’!
He wur covert o’er wi’ ceaw yure un slutched fere op to th’ knees,
Un he wur awlus tackin’ snuff un mackin’ th’ scholars sneeze!
Aw connot tell wot he larnt um, fur he connot read hissel’
He wur spellin’ elephant t’other night wi’ a h-e-ll.
Ther’s ‘Ned o’ Farthin’ Candles,” heaw that lives Aw’m capt,
He keeps pooin’ throo beawt worchin’, — as heaw the dal its shapped!
Thi’ reckon ut he’s noan reet, he’s noather wit nur shift,—
He’s soh mich wit he’ll worch noan, he’ll noather poo nur lift.
Ther’s “Dan o’ Three Pigs” op i’th’ broo, neaw howd off, theer, abit,
He’s just reet when he’s th’ baileys in un doin’ a moonlit flit,
If he worches a hauve-an-heaur he’s hangin’ reawnd to draw,
Un his wife goes eaut o weshin’ when hoo is’nt deawn i’th’ straw.
Ther’s “Slut,” he catches mowdiwarps, he’s knock-a-kneed un fat;
Un “Ratcher,” he’s a road chap, un awlus in a swat,
He reeches like an oon cleaut — he’s never time to cool,
He wears his singlets o i’ bits wi’ restin’ op o’th’ shool.
Ther’s “Tom o’ Fratchin’ Moll’s,” he sits o’th’ side.o’th’ oon,
Thi’ reckon he goes cranky every time ther’ comes a moon!
He weighves abit fur “Joe o’Dont’s,” he’s awlus mackin’ strife,
He’s livin’ tally neaw, thi’ sen, wi’ owd “Red Breeches’” wife.
Ther’s “Sawtbag,” he’s a pigeon chap, un keeps a rattin’ dog,
He’s bin laddert mony o time fur givin’ th’ wife sum clog,
He likes to borrow a shillin’ — but he’d rayther borrow ten,
Un ony foo’ ut larns it him ull ne’er see th’ brass agen.
Ther’s “Ballybant,” to yer that toak ther’s nobedy bin as gam,
He broke hissel’ wi’ pooin’ th’ cat throo owd “Flock Jamie’s dam!
When thi’ burried “Blubber’s” wife he’d a bran new suit o’ black,
Un he waded throo a lime hole fur a gallon comin’ back;
He wrastled “Roamper’s” donkey t’other Friday neet, thi’ sen,
Thi’ gate a thrut a piece, — un Aw yerd they’re matched agen!
Aw never sit ut side o’ him, Aw think he carries fleas,
Un his wife brings foak little babbies fro’ under apple trees. _
Ther’s “Crootleg,” he’s a Co-op. chap, once as poor as ony crow,
Neaw he’s a row o’ heauses un brass i’th’ bank un o!
He gets sum dryin’ deawn, thi’ coan him howt uts bad,
Thi’ connot see heaw he’s done it eaut o’th’ wage he’s had!
Aw’m sayin’ nowt, yoh known, nawt he doesn’t get mich drink,
He keeps gettin’ howd does “Crootleg,” ne’er mind what naybors think.
Ther’s “Bob o’ Dan’s o’ Foomerts’,” that’s a brawsen lump o’ stuff,
Yoh con smell him strung a mile off, he’s covert o’er wi’ snuff!
He peddles tea un papper birm, un ostles abit fur foak,
But he’s bothert wi’ his nangnails wol he’s a job toh woak.
Ther’s “Dick ut Top o’th’ Hedges,” he deeuls i’ cauves un slink, |
He’ll goh ten mile ony day to get a quart o’ drink!
He tacks his veal toh Owdham in a little donkey cart,
Un it gets soh thin wi’ jowtin’ ut he sells it eaut bi* th’ quart.
Ther’s “Joe o’ Fatty Fussock’s,” he’s cronkt theer every neet,
He goes to th’ Ceawlone Chapel neaw, wheer things are noan so sweet,
They’re fratchin’ o’er ther’ parson, — ther’ is sum weary wark,
They’n pown his yed wi’ Bibles fro’ Sunday morn till dark,
They’n kilt a hauve-a-dozen, they'll kill sum moore Aw'll bet!
They'll punce o’th’ gravestones eaut ut yard un level th’ Chapel yet,
Thi’ sen its o fur love o’ God, but heaw, Aw cannot tell,
Fur if sich like are beawn to heaven, Aw’d rayther go to hell.
Ther’s “Ab o’ Jack’s o’ Ceawpap’s,” he con nother write nur read,
But he awlus votes fur th’ Tories, same as o’ his fayther breed,
He’s awlus cadgin’ ’bacco, un he’s full o’ little tricks,
He’s just reet when he’s fratchin’ o’er wark un politics.
Ther’s owd “Twangtoe,” he’s keen bitten, un ever op o’th’ twitch,
Thi’ reckon he’s a Radical, he winnot part wi’ mich,
As lung as ther’s chep ale abeaut he’ll sit un slotch i’th’ nook,
But when it comes his turn to pay he’s awlus ta’en his hook.
Ther’s “Jamie Peephole,” that’s kicked op mony a shine!
Yoh con tell him, becose his feet ur allus a “quarter past nine!”
When ther’s plenty o’lowance flying yoh’ll find him op to’ th’ mark,
But he’s awlus getten rheumatic if sumdy mentions wark.
Ther’s “Sam o’ Bussert Ned’s,” he’s a greedy piece, shusheaw,
He'll barge fro’ Wakes till Kersmus o’er a tanner in a ceaw!
He kept a big red bull when he farmed ut Lowermire,
Wol every cauve i’th’ country wur as red as Puddle’s fire!
He awthert that one neet when he’d getten a bit too far,
He fot th’ bull eaut o’th’ cote un blacked it o’er wi’ tar,
By gum! its true as gospel! there wur sum weary toak,
But neaw o’th cauves i’ Ringwood ur as black as berrin’ foak.
Ther’s “Bill o’ Broody Duck’s,” he’s huggin’ bund un skens,
He’s peylin’ reawnd o’th’ Sunday o’er truckin’ cocks un hens!
He gropes his pullets every neet, he says he’ll mack um lay,
Un he tees um fast to th’ neeses when he thinks thi’n laid away.
Ut Kersmus Puddle treats um, un thi’ han a riving neet,
He lets um ha’ sum whisky — un its noan soh lung i’ th’ seet,
Ther’s beef un hunters’ puddin’, un brandy dip un o,
Un owd “Poopap” kusses Puddle under th’ mistletoe!
Thi’re daincin’ reawnd th’ tapreawm un caperin’ op un deawn,
Un “Jack Powcatt” wrastles “Nodder” fur a gallon un a creawn,
Thi’ gruntun op o’th floor wol thi’ getten wedged i’ th’ nook,
Un then it ends i’ fratchin’ un a gradely muck-a-rook.

Ammon Wrigley - "Owd Puddle's Alehouse"

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Poetry
This page was last modified on 12 August 2018 and has been edited by Dave Pattern.

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