This is a poem to be found in Lancashire Miscellany. There are two books by that name on amazon; it’s the one with the poems in it.
It is written by a guy called Sam Fitton, died 1923.
It is called Th’ Childer’s Holiday and you need to read it in a broad Lanky dialect accent.
Eh dear, I’m welly off my chump!
I scrub an’ wesh, an’ darn;
Eawr childer han a holiday,
An’ th’ heawse is like a barn.
Yo’ talk abeawt a home sweet home!
My peace is flown away;
I have to live i’ Bedlam for
A fortnit an’ a day.
They’re in an’ eawt fro morn to neet,
I met weel look so seawer;
They’re wantin’ pennies every day
An’ butties every heawer.
They’n worn my Sunday carpet eawt
Wi’ runnin’ up an’ deawn;
Eawr Polly broke a jug today,
An’ Jimmy broke his creawn.
They’n nobbut bin a-whoam a week,
But, bless me, heaw they grow;
An’ talk o’ childish innocence,
The devil’s in ’em o.
They’n smashed a brand new dolly tub,
An’ o’ my clooas pegs;
They’n rattled th’ paint off th’ parlour door,
An’ the’ skin off th’ table legs.
They started pooin’ the pictures deawn,
One neet when I were eawt,
Eawr Tum geet the’ "Rock of Ages," an’
He gave eawr Joe a clout.
Eawr Bill, who has a biggish meawth—
He’s allus in disgrace—
Set off cowfin t’other day,
An’ went reet black i’ th’ face.
He’d swallowed th’ babby’s dummy-tit
Wi-rawnging wi’ eawr Bet;
We’n gan him tons of physic, but
We hanno fun it yet.
Eawr Jack’s a plester on his nose,
An’ th’ beggar looks a treat;
He’d pood his tongue eawt to a lad
Who lives i’ Stoney-street.
Eawr Bobby’s bin i’ bed o day,
Poor lad, he does look hurt.
He went o bathin’ yesterday,
An’ some’dy stole his shirt.
They’re o so full o dirt an’ grime,
I’st never get ’em clen;
I’st ha’ to scrape ’em when it’s time
To go to schoo’ again.
Eawr Tommy says he winno goo,
That lad’s a wary wight.
He’s had his thumb i’ th’ mangle, an’
He swears he conno write.
I sat me deawn o’ Wednesday neet,
An’ th’ parson’s wife were theer,
I hope hoo didno yer me swear—
They’d put a pin i’ th’ cheear.
I’d lock ’em up i’ th’ schoo’ for good
If I could ha’ my will;
I’d see they had another clause
I’ th’ Education Bill.
I’ve clouted ’em an’ slapped ’em till
My honds an’ arms are sore;
I’st fancy I’m i’ Paradise
When th’ holidays are o’er.
They’re like a lot of lunatics,
They’n getten eawt of hond;
But yet, I wouldno part wi’ ’em
For o there is i’ th’ lond.