At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack,
No daat yo knew him weel;
His cheeks wor red, his een wor black,
His limbs wor strong as steel.
His curly hair wor black as jet,
His spirits gay an glad,
An monny a lass her heart had set
On Jack the Wibsey lad.
Sal Simmons kept a little shop,
An bacca seld, an spice,
An traitle drink, an ginger pop,
An other things as nice.
Shoo wor a widow, fat an fair,
An allus neat an trim;
An Jack seem'd fairly stuck on her;
An shoo wor sweet on him.
But other lasses thowt they had
A claim on Jack's regard;
A widow to win sich a lad,
They thowt wor very hard;
They called her a designin jade,
An one an all cried "Shame!"
But Sally kept on wi her trade,
An Jack went just the same.
One neet when commin hooam throo wark,
They stopt him on his way,
An pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark,
To say what they'd to say.
They sed they thowt a widow should
Let lasses have a share,
An net get ivvery man shoo could;
They didn't think it fair,
Jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat,
His face wor burnin red;
His heart wor touched, - noa daat o' that,
But this wor what he sed.
"Awd like to wed yo ivvery one,
An but for th' law aw wod,
But weel yo know if th' job wor done,
They'd put me into quod."
"As aw can mak but one mi wife, -
Sal Simmons suits me weel;
For aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life,
An dooan't know ha awst feel.
But if aw wed a widow, an
Aw fail mi pairt to play;
Shoo'll varry likely understand,
An put me into th' way.