A varmer chap waance said tu me
If ee cud maake tha law,
E'ud clap in jaill all they who maake
A barrow or a haw.

So then I told that chap a taale
I'll tell un now ta you,
Tis bout a grand old clay work man,
Old Unkle Jan Poldu.

Now Jan ee work'd over ta Baal
And there ee wus content,
Cos doan't ee see ee like his job.
His job was wheelin' stent.

Ta Jan tha barrow wus his maate,
Ee tend un like cheel,
Cos every time ee heer'd un screech,
Ee allus gress'd tha wheel.

Wot Unkle Jan like moast ov all,
Wus a good old lot ov maits
Moast people spoas do ait ta live
But Jan ee lived ta ait.

His poor old woman, Maartha Jaanes,
Cud never strike nor blaw,
Cos doant ee see that poor old sawl,
Wus allus staag'd in daw.

Roastin, fryin, boilin, baakin,
She look'd boath old and bent,
Ta keep Jan's innards vull with grub,
Wus wuss than wheelin' stent.

Moast Saturdays ee walk'd from Roche
In to St. Tossle town,
Ta go around tha butchers shops
Avore they ded close down.

All sorts ov scraggy ends ee'ud buy,
For only eighteen pence,
Old traade that women wudden buy,
Cos they did av more sence.

A bullocks chack fly blows and all
Sheeps haids with eyes all in
Great old lumps ov baacon fat,
Cow eels and yards ov skin.

Ee'ud put it in a flour bag,
And haive it pon his back,
Then with a smile ov sweet content
Staart on his homeward track.

When ee got home ee look'd jest like
An old wind broken nag,
And bled and greas from haids and maits
Wor laikin droo tha bag.

Ee said ta Maartha Jaane, "My dear,
I'm purtin glad I'm come,
I'm feerly starvin iss I be
My pots be creakin' some."

"Now in that bag my dear you'll find,
All sorts ov lovly mait,
If it do taaste like it do smill,
It will be good to ait."

She went and open'd up tha bag,
Then turn'd away her haid
And said ta Jan, "That stuff in there,
Do smill like summin' daid."

She put tha boiler on tha fire,
And boil'd up tha sheep's haid,
Then Jan ded ait un eyes and all,
Avore ee went ta baid.

Ee lick'd his fingers, smack'd his lips,
His faace wus vull ov smiles
That sheep's haid had bin dain so long,
You could smill un for miles.

Sundays they both went to tha church,
To hear tha passon praiche,
When tha collection box com'd round,
They gived a halfpenny aich.

Then Monday mornin' like a lark
Once more ta Baale ee went,
Took his barrow, gress'd tha wheel,
And started wheelin'n stent.

Summer, winter, autumn, spring
The saisons com'd and went
Aich night ee went home to his mait
Aich morning to his stent.

Now Unkle Jan and Maartha Jaane,
Ded av no caick nor cheel
She nursed and clained her cookin' pans
And Jan his barrow wheel.

If Unkle Jan cud come back now,
Ee'd say mait wus too dear
And if ee went to tha clay works
Ee'ud say they'm straange and queer.

Tis a good job ee cant come back,
Ee wudden be content,
With any job, not matter what
Unless twas wheelin' stent.