Mixtape

 Audio / Video files of songs mentioned in this story

Polly, put the kettle on,

And let's have tea!

Polly, put the kettle on,

And we'll all have tea.

Mrs. Barton was evidently soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts to her friend; and her approving look went far to second her husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from 

Green Heys Fields to tea, at the Bartons' house.

"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about fine music myself, but folks say Margaret is a rare singer, and I know she can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do sing that, Margaret, there's a good lass."

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song, Margaret began.

Do you know "The Oldham Weaver?" Not unless you are Lancashire born and bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for you.
 

THE OLDHAM WEAVER.

I.

Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,

Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've woorn eawt my clooas,

Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,

My clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none,

Yo'd think it wur hard,

To be browt into th' warld,

To be—clemmed, [5] an' do th' best as yo con.

II.

Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me lung,

Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung,

Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath,

Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath,

Owd Dicky's weel crammed,

He never wur clemmed,

An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife. [6]

III.

We tow'rt on six week—thinking aitch day wur th' last,

We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast;

We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good,

An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food,

Oi'm tellin' yo' true,

Oi can find folk enow,

As wur livin' na better nor me.

IV.

Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day,

Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,

But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent,

Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods fur th' rent,

We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo',

That wur seeats fur two,

An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.

V.

Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,

When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse,

Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see;"

Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me."

They made no moor ado

But whopped up th' eawd stoo',

An' we booath leet, whack—upo' t' flags!

VI.

Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor,

"We's never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure,

If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend,

For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend;

For meeat we ha' none;

Nor looms t' weyve on,—

Edad! they're as good lost as fund."

VII.

Eawr Marget declares had hoo cloo'as to put on,

Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon;

An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,

Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend;

Hoo's neawt to say again t' king,

But hoo loikes a fair thing,

An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Mary held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge, with which the poor depressed-looking young needle-woman used her superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travers herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.

She could not now sit quietly through the evening at her work; or, if she kept, by a strong effort, from pacing up and down the room, she felt as if she must sing to keep off thought while she sewed. And her songs were the maddest, merriest, she could think of. "Barbara Allen," and such sorrowful ditties, did well enough for happy times; but now she required all the aid that could be derived from external excitement to keep down the impulse of grief.