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Now touch your pipe comrades says I

And niver be too hasty,

And I will make a footch to rhyme

about a Tatty-Paasty

There’s mait enuf of iv’ry sort

All fillin like and taasty;

But. For a Carnish miners mait,

Give me a Taaty-Paasty.

Good-Lor1-What lots of em I’ve carr’d

To bal when I were little-

Baaked ‘pon the brandis long with furse,

En baaker and en kittle!

Iss slabs es handy, I deer saay-

Theres piles of new things maaken-

But give me Mawther’s baaker, soas!

That theer’s the thing for baaken!

Slabs, kitcheners, and what besides-

I’d fooch awaay them trade;

No pasties iver was sa good

As them that Mather made!

The fire-ook in her hand,

a-footchen ‘bout the burnen sticks,

And doin’ pasties grand!

An then she’d saay, “Tey’er ready, ‘bleeve!”

Jist as the fit would take her,

And slip a knife right in between

The bake-ire and the baaker.

“Aw, they’re done beautiful!” she’d saay.

“Fauwl wan se burnt a bit-

Well niver mind-‘tes luch I s’pose;

We take what we can git!

Now maidens, taake they paasties up,

An’ put en all you’ve got;

A pass’l o’ hungry grawen booys

Well ait a braa big lot!”

Et may not ba sa very rech,

Nor yit sa very shawy;

But nawthen’s like a pasty, soas,

To feed a grawen booy!

An ‘ then they aren’t like pie or stew,

Or brath, or fish-an-tates,

Or fried petates; for they you must

Have baasins, dishes plates.

An’ knives and farks, an’ spoons an’ things

An’ table, to be sure;

But for a pasty hands an’ jaws

Will do, weth nawthen moore.

Jist drap’n en your handkercher,

Wan carner sticken out;

Then bite an’ chow which way you mind,

You’re right enough, no doubt.

You needn’t have et en no room,

Nor set upon no cheer ;

Jist choose a spat of handy grass

An’ setty down right theer.

Or lean your back agin a hedge,

Or quatty ‘pon a board,

An’ then you wudn, ef you cud,

Chaange denners weth a loor!

So good luck to the pasty, booys,

The aiter, and the maker;

And good luck to the baaken-ire,

The brandis, and the baaker-

Good luck to all the Carnish booys,

That niver yit was baiten;

A pasty may they niver want

Nor Stummick for to ait’n!

Among the men of north " St. Ann's,"

Famed for their one-time futile labour,'

There lived one of our " Foolish Jans,"

Though not so much behind his neighbour.

One day in hunting-time, near Yule,

A luckless Nimrod rode and pondered,

Our Jan he spied, and bawled, " Here, fool,

Canst say which way the fox has wandered?"

" Aw, Maaster! you ded frighten me ;‑
A codger 'tes, I thoft, plaise sure,

But gents, they doon't luk down 'pon we,—
They d' knaw tes wisht nuf to be poor.

"What soort o' crayter do 'ee mane ?

Was' sumfin like a lil small dog;

 Wan minnet looken fur a drain,

Then dugglen awver field and bog?"

"Au bra' way back the dogs ded yowl

A rig'lar drilgy 'twas to hear—

They say he stawl the farmers's fowl

Then to kill 'e they thoft was feer.

"Shut up, you fool, I cannot stay,"

With upraised whip the hunter cries,

As Jan, in his own stuttering way,

Talked of his tail and " cunnen' eyes.

"Mind you doon't 'it me weth that tool!

You'm in some por to git away;

Quitty for quotty, you called me fool,

I b'leve I seed en—t'other day."

Ded I tell ‘ee ‘bout Cam Brea Cathedral

An’ ‘ow it all come about?

Well you’ll want t’ knaw a bit ‘bout tha Bishup

An’ awlsoa tha Dean I’ve no doubt.

Tha Bishup was built short an’ stuggy

Weth a ‘ead which was shinny an’ bald

An noun’ reddish chacks an’ a smile on ‘is faace

‘ee dedn seem t’ ‘ave no wernies ‘t all.

Tha Dean ‘ee was tall an’ ‘s thin ‘s a raake

Uv good ‘umour ‘ee dedn ‘ave no lack

But ‘ee wouidn’ shaw ut, not less ‘ee ‘ad to,

‘Ee seemed t’ ‘ave th’ ole wend on ‘is back.

Black ‘aired an’ dark featured an’ stoopin’

‘Ee looked like a prophet uv owld;

But ‘ee’d laff like a pisky when ‘ee ‘ad ‘nuf whisky

(Which ‘ee ‘ad ‘t ‘ave t’ keep out tha cowld);

Fer ‘tes braa ‘m cowld on Cam Bnea some evenin’s

When th’whole piaace es shrouded in fog

An’ tha winds blaw tha drizzle right up from St. Ives,

‘Tedn fit fen man, woman, ‘n dog.

You got t’ ‘ave somethin’ t’ warm ‘ee

An’ though some git ‘long weth their tea

The Dean claimd that people sh’d drink what they fancied;

An’ it ‘ad t’ be whisky fen ‘ee.

Tha Bishup dedn mm’ what ‘ee drank ‘t awl;

Tay, wines, coffee, spirits ‘r beer

‘Ee dearly liked t’ ‘ave ‘is pint down at that ‘Lion’

‘Ee c’d chat to ‘is people down theen

An ‘ear ‘bout then troubles an’ give ‘is advice

In a way that was neelly perfeshnal,

An’ so many people turned up Fnidy nights

That sum called et tha Bishup’s Confeshnal.

Sometimes, uv an evenin’ tha Dean went down tha Cam

T’ call in at th’ owld “Oss an Cart”

An’ chat t’ tha neglars an’ visiters then,

An tha Dean thnawed a pretty good dart.

They dedn ‘ave no dart board in tha Cathedral

An’ ‘is werk kep’m busy awl day

Soa ‘ee dedn ‘ave a lot a’ time fer t’ practise

But ‘ee ‘adn’t fengot ‘ow t’ play.

An’ many a visiter who took’n on

An’ played ‘n fen pints ‘r fer tots

Found the Reverend gentleman better than they

Though losin’ was far from theen thawts,

Fen Deans aren’t s’posed t’ be any good

At gaames like shove-haapny ‘r darts

An’ t’ be beat fair ‘n square by this solmn ol’ man

Was jist like a knife t’ then ‘earts.

But it gov’m respect fen Religion

An’ fer th’ ol’ Dean uv Cam Brea

An’ tha Dean dedn mm’ winnin’ a tot ‘n two

‘Twas like ‘avin’ untaxable pay.

‘mong tha regular congnegaashun

Was a man called Sammy Tneloar

An’ ‘ee went t’ sleep evry sermon

‘Caws ‘ee thawt that’s wat sermons was for

T’ gib’m a rest b’tween singin’,

Fer ‘ee gave th’ oi’ hymn tunes bell-tink

An’ if you stood near to un when ‘ee was in full spaate

Shock waves from ‘is voice maade ‘ee blink

When they come t’ th’ end of th’ hymn tune

‘Ee sat down agen in ‘is pew

An’ wud doaze off ‘gen till th’ argan ded start

An’ then ‘ee’d come up right on cue.

That angan was jist like a ‘larm clock to un,

No other soun’ woake’n ‘t all;

People said ‘ee wud sleep if tha C’thedral failed down

Ef ‘ee dedn git that ol’ argan call.

Tha Bishup said, “What can ‘ee do weth tha man?

‘Ee doan’t ‘ear a wend that es sed!

‘Ee doan’t ‘ear no ‘nnouncements, no prayers n’r no sermns,

N’r no lesson, ‘oever tes read.”

The Dean sed “Me ‘ansum, now leave’n aloan

An’ be thankful t’ God ‘ee doan’t snoar.

Then’s sum wot caan’t understand awl we d’ say

Ef they could, they wouldn cum ‘ere no moan.

They d’ think ‘Thass anuther new ‘at Many Richards ‘as got on

An’ I abm seen ‘m in that dress befoam.

Awl tha money in that ‘ouse d’ goa on ‘em back

Caws ‘em oI’ man an’ kids d’ look poor’.

An’ sum d’ sit quiet an’ think bout then garden

An’ ‘ow then p’taties ‘r grawin’

An’ whether tes time fen t’ put in sum unyuns

Or wether tha groun’s might fer sawing.

Ef you caan’t understand et you just ‘s well sleep through et

As let y’n mm’ wander ‘bout things.

Es doan’t do no ‘arm t’ nobody else.

Sam d’ worship wen ‘ee d’ sing;

An’ ‘ee’Il awiways ‘elp ef then’s sum job t’ do

T’ kape this oald buiidin’ like new.”

Tha Bishup sed “Dean, I’d bleeve that y’r right,

An’ I’d knaw weth sum people tes true,

Ef they d’ like then hymn singing better than pnaichin’

Then edn much that I c’n do.”

The Dean sed, “Sum people d’ take in things better

Ef you talk t’ them when they’re asleep,

Tes th’ hypnotic effect that the Doctors d’ use

When then patients es sleepin’ quite deep.”

Sed tha Bishup, “Me ‘andsome, I d’ knaw you mean well

You d’ awlways ‘elp me a lot,

Come down-long weth me t’ th’ ol’ ‘Oss ‘n Cart”

An’ I’ll play ‘ee at darts fer a tot.