Бенджамин Брирли (Benjamin Brierley)

Owd Pigeon

"THE RULING PASSION STRONG IN DEATH."

OWD PIGEON wur as dry a brid
    As ever swiped his drink;
He liked to see a frothy pint
    Smile at his nose, an' wink.

At morn or neet, 'twur aulus reet,
    A quart, or pint, or gill
Wur th' same to him; if th' pot wur full
    He never had his fill.

If e'er he geet his breeches' knees
    Beneath a taproom table,
He'd sit, an' drink, an' smoke, an' wink
    As long as he wur able.

He'd grown so firm to th' alehouse nook,
    An' swiped so mony mixtures,
That when it coom to changin' honds
    He're reckoned among th' fixtures.

Whene'er their Betty brewed a "peck,"
    If he could find a jug,
He wouldno' wait till th' ale wur "tunned,"
    He'd lade it eaut o'th' mug.

One neet Owd Pigeon flew to'ard whoam,
    Wi' a very wobblin' flutter;
Sometimes he'd tumble into th' hedge,
    An' sometimes into th' gutter.

He knew he're late, an' didno' want
    Their Betty t' see a leet;
So crept upstairs to bed i'th' dark
    An' in his stockin' feet.

He groped abeaut i'th' sleepin' cote,
    An' felt for th' drawers an' th' bed;
But nowt he touched till th' bedpost flew,
    An' banged again his yead.

"Theigher," said Pigeon, "that's a go;
    There' someb'dy bin workin' charms;
For it's th' fust time e'er I knew mi nose
    Wur longer than mi arms."

But poor Owd Pigeon's time had come,
    An' when his will he'd signt,
He said he ailed nowt nobbut "drooth,"
    An' begged for another pint.

His "rulin passion" stuck till death,
    An' as th' Slayer raised his dart,
He licked his lips, an' faintly said,
    "Just mak' it int' a quart.

I wouldno' care a pin for th' grave,
    Though I'm totterin' upo' th' brink,
If I could come back wi' th' buryin' folk,
    An' ha' my share o'th' drink."