As aw cam doon the Keswick street,
Aw met a body of ninety three,
She was straight of back and strong on her
And this is what she said to me:
“You ask me why so lish I go—
’Twas poddish, barn, that myde me so.
“What, barn, in our forelders’ days,
When merry neets were a’ the thing,
When fwolks greaved peat to make a blaze,
And fiddlers went a-Christmasing.
We grew oor oats, we kept a coo,
And supped on poddish all t’year throo.
“Godd hardin’ sark our mothers made,
We carded woo, we larned to spin—
Dress-makkin was not then the trade,
And household wark was thowt nae sin.
Pow-sowdies for our Christmas do
We hed, but supped our poddish, too.
We did not clash oorsells wi’ tea,
We’d milk and haver bread to yeat,
And that’s why I am ninety-three
An t’auld fwolks’ day is still a treat,
If you wad hev your auld age so
To poddish back you all must go.
(Cumberland and Westmorland Herald, 28 December 1901, p. 5)