Our Billy

In my part of Northern England the American Civil war brought disaster. No cotton meant mills closed and tens of thousands were thrown out of work. I hope the old Lancashire dialect is not too difficult.


Our Billy went fer a sowjer there’s no work up at t’mill

We watched our Billy march away across yon Pendle Hill

Fer Americans were feetin’ an’ the cotton it were scarce

Civil war they call it, and for us a devil’s curse

 

He didn’t want to do it but went through urgent need

He saw himself a burden, just another mouth t’ feed

We packed him off wi’ bread an’ cheese t’were all we had t’ eat

We ‘ad ter mak’ ‘im  tek’ it, cos he said it wasn't reet

 

An’ that were last we saw of him these seven year gone by

We lived in fear our lad so dear we’d sent ‘im off t’die

When home he came he were lame a ball ‘ad took his leg

No one would employ him now so he wer set to beg

 

But he’d met a man in India a Guru chap he said

Who put the strangest notions inside our Billy’s ‘ead

See Bill were always 'appy, joyous with his lot

An' folks loved him fer it and put coppers in his pot

 

For although e wer’ a beggar he filled their hearts with joy

A smiling and a singing and it weren't no crafty ploy

But genuine rejoicing for the wonders of this life

And thankful for his blessings regardless of all strife

 

Poor Billy died of fever he’d caught in that far land

An’ folks came to his funeral the lowly and the grand

They wept at Billy’s passing but praised his selflessness

A humble crippled beggar who’d brought them happiness