Britannia Mill Drawings Rob Miller /Poem The Factory Lad by John Walker

Britannia Mill Haslingden

Britannia Mill Haslingden

Falcon Mill Bolton

THE FACTORY LAD
a poem by John Walker Blackburn poet 1864

Aw s' bi just fifteen next Micklemas-day,
Aw'm nod varra big o' mi age, sooa they say;
But aw hooap as aw've nod done thrivin',
'Cause aw s' hev three looms in awhile, aw'm towd;
Aw've bin learnin' to weyve sin' eight year' owd,
An' to be a good hand aw'm strivin'.

Mi mother's a widow, an' varra poor
Mi fayther's bin deead twelve months or moor,
An' aw'm th' owdst but one eawt o' seven.
Aw could cry when aw think abeawt trouble there's bin,
Heaw mi mother's bin hampered an' moythered, sin'
My fayther took journey to heaven.

When poorly an' bedfast he said to me,—"John,
Tha'll be a goad lad when aw'm deead an' gone,
An' do wad tha can for thi mother.
God help her, poor lass! hoo'll be soorly tried";
Then he covered his face wi his hands an' cried,
While hot tears fell one after th' other.

Just a month after this an' th' bum-bailies coom,
An' sowd most d t' things eawt d th' little back roam,
Wi some cheers, an' an owd ooak table;
They were sent in bi th' landlord, owd Isaac Steel,
An' aw thowt id wer hard, for he knew reet weel
We should pay him off when we were able.

When t' cased clock wer sowd, which a scoor o' years
I'th' corner hed stoode, aw could see there were tears
Deawn mi mother's smooth features rowlin';
An' aw said to misel', we'll ha'e thad clock back,
If aw work o mi life till mi senners crack,
An' mi buryin' bell is towlin'.

Thad clock wer gi'en to her when fost hoo wer wed,
Though id wornd woth so much i' one sense, hoo said
Except 'cause id coom fro' her fayther.
But aw'm fain to say as it's come back neaw—
Gi'en to us ageean; d'ye wander heaw?
Id wer bowt bi a kindly neighbour.

Such kind, thowtful feelin' quite cheered us up,
For there's drops o' sweetness i' th' bitterest cup;
When it's darkest sun's olez shinin';
An' although black clouds may be hingin' abeawt,
Iv yo'll patiently wait, sun's sure to breyk eawt,
An' give 'em a silvery linin'.

So aw lives i' hooaps as this rainy day,
Like o dark weet weather 'll gooa away;
It's a long neet as hes no mornin'.
Time may come when ther'll be nowt but rooases sweet,
While t' thorns 'll be trampled an' crushed at mi feet,
An' aw s' bless thad day aw wer born in.

There's lots can be honest wi' bellies full,
For they mistake puddin' for principle;
Their goodness is ruled bi their porridge,
But aw trust aw s' be one o' thad honest few,
Hatin' dodgin' an' tricks, as 'll struggle through
Wi' a manly unflinchin' corrage.

So aw'll sing for misel, "Cheer up, young heart!
He's a wastrel sowdger as wern'd do his part,
An' stand amidst thunder an' rattle;
It's poverty tries men's mettle an' might,
An' them as con feight wi' a good name bright
Are the heroes of every battle."