Somebody’s knocking at the door
Mother, come down and see.
— I’s think it’s nobbut a
beggar,
Say, I’m busy.
It’s not a beggar, mother, — hark
How hard he knocks . . .
— Eh, tha’rt a mard-’arsed
kid,
‘E’ll gi’e thee socks!
Shout an’ ax what ‘e wants,
I canna come down.
— ‘E says ‘‘ Is it Arthur HolHday’s?
“
Say ‘‘ Yes,” tha clown.
‘E says, “ Tell your mother as ‘er mester’s
Got hurt i’ th’ pit.”
What — oh my sirs, ‘e never says that,
That’s niver it.
Come out o’ the way an’ let me see,
Eh, there’s no peace I
An’ stop thy scraightin’, childt,
Do shut thy face.
“Your mester’s ‘ad an accident,
An’ they’re ta’ein ‘im i’ th’ ambulance
To Nottingham,” — Eh dear o’ me
If ‘e’s not a man for mischance!
Wheers he hurt this time, lad?
— I dunna know,
They on’y towd me it wor bad —
It would be so!
Eh, what a man! — an’ that cobbly road,
They’ll jolt him a’most to death,
I’m sure he’s in for some trouble
Nigh every time he takes breath.
Out o’ my way, childt — dear o* me, wheer
Have I put his clean stockings and shirt;
Goodness knows if they’ll be able
To take off his pit dirt.
An’ what a moan he’ll make — there niver
Was such a man for a fuss
If anything ailed him — at any rate
I shan’t have him to nuss.
I do hope it’s not very bad!
Eh, what a shame it seems
As some should ha’e hardly a smite o’
trouble
An’ others has reams.
It’s a shame as ‘e should be knocked about
Like this, I’m sure it is!
He’s had twenty accidents, if he’s had
one;
Owt bad, an’ it’s his.
There’s one thing, we ‘11 have peace for a
bit,
Thank Heaven for a peaceful house;
An’ there’s compensation, sin’ it’s accident,
An’ club money — I nedn’t grouse.
An’ a fork an’ a spoon he’ll want, an’ what else;
I s’ll never catch that train —
What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt —
I s’d think he’ll get right again.