by Richard Vang
Southwest Brewing News, (Austin, TX) 1996, 4:1
Presented by the Upstate Chunk & Paradigm Company
I must apologize to my faithful reader (if that one hasn't left me yet) for not contributing something more substantial to this fine newspaper in recent issues. Sometimes, the Land of Mañana overpowers you, not to mention the heat of recent weeks, and you find yourself beyond your deadline. Luckily enough, I came across this gem in an obscure journal just in time to save any fragment of reputation that I may have left.
I found this poem in volume 67 of the Transactions of the Manchester Association for Masonic Research, a journal devoted to the scholarly research of Freemasonry. The author's name was Ben Brierley (1825-1896), a poet who specialized in transcribing to print the unique dialect of Lancashire in England. It is offered here in its entirety, and in its' original form, for the readers of SWBN to contemplate over their next "mug o' whoam brewed." Although I'm not sure how accurate a representation this may be, I find that mimicking Eric (Monty Python) Idle's voice when reading this poem makes it a little more understandable. Enjoy!
(From "Irkdale," &c.)
THER'S nowt i' this wo'ld like my own chimdy nook,
When my cheear up to th' fire I've poo'd;
When th' wife has just rocked th' little babby to sleep,
An' fotched me a mug o' whoam-brewed.
Hoo smiles, does th'owd dame, as if nobbut just wed,
When her caps an' her napkins hoo's blued,
Then warms up her face wi' a blink o' th'owd leet
Ut shines in a mug o' whoam-brewed.
It's as breet as a glent o' eaur Maytime o' life,
Or as havin' owd pleasures renewed,
Is the sunleet ut fo's reaund my hearthstone at neet,
When seen through a sheawer o' whoam-brewed.
My heause is my castle has often bin sung,
Where no king, duke, or lord dar' intrude;
But it needs no hard feighten' to keep eaut a foe
When I truce wi' a mug o' whoam-brewed.
Care once coome a-neighbourin', an' pottert at th' dur
An' his nose into th' keyhole he screwed;
But he soon scampered back to his feyther, the dule,
When he smelt I'd a mug o' whoam-brewed.
When I'm thinkin' what toilin' an' frabbin' ther' needs
Through this wo'ld to get decently poo'd,
It melts into pastime, does th' hardest o' wark,
When it's helped wi' a mug o' whoam-brewed.
It'll help us to fettle both th' nation an' th' laws,
An' to so'der up money a feud;
An' if th' wo'ld has gone wrang, we con reet it again
By th' power of a mug o' whoam-brewed.
Then come to my elbow, thou primest o' drinks,
Wi' sweetest o' pleasures endued;
The jolliest neighbour to jog wi' through life
Is a full peauchin mug o' whoam-brewed.
Back to the SWBN Menu
Article and SWBN logo ©1993-2001, Southwest Brewing News.