A Conversation in Hester Pit. 16 January 1862

Chokedamp

Ye cannit tell, ye nah.

Aye, Geordie, ee younguns

divvent mind the bord -

yellow feathas torned black -

singin’ ‘til it didn’t,

wuz’ve got wor lamps now.

Davy’s, not Stephenson’s.

No, wuh cannit tell,

the black dust has got

wuh number...

 

‘Coz,

hev’ yiz evah seen an old collier?

Nivver think it willent,

the stythe will gerrus all.

 

Whitedamp

Thiz lamps glowin’ brightah,

an’ a bit a’ the smell,

though willy lowe’s eggs

might could be off again,

or wuz’ve got bother.

Run doon the jenkin,

Geordie, hev a sniff

divvent tek yer lamp, eh?

gan on to the cage, Bobby,

ring the bell;

wek the fukken’ deputy.

Ah bet the bastard’s drunk

anyhow.

 

Collapse

did yis heeyah that?

Hevvint hoard a clattah

like thet since Billy Weir

fell doon the cellar

at the Black Bull

it wiz the barrels

fallin' after, thet

made the racket.

 

Firedamp

Wuh cannit breathe,

nee contraband doon here

nee matchuz, nowt,

but it duzzent mattah.

There’s nee firedamp

and it’ll be the wattah

or the stythe

that diz fer wuz

now.