Bowd Slasher. The Pace Egg in Dialect. [leisure trust, arts heritage, sports centres, fitness health, rochdale, link4life, entertainment, Rochdale Boroughwide Cultural Trust, museum, middleton arena, gallery, touchstones, local studies, central, bowlee, springhill, marland, heywood, littleborough,]
John Trafford Clegg, Lancashire Dialect Writer (c.1890)
Bowd Slasher
The Pace Egg Play in Lancashire Dialect, by John Trafford Clegg. 1895
This slightly abridged version of ‘Bowd Slasher’ is taken from ‘The Works of John Trafford Clegg (Th’owd Weighver) Stories, Sketches and Rhymes in the Lancashire Dialect. The volume was published in Rochdale by James Clegg’s Aldine Press in 1895.
You will notice that the author has included banter between the players and members of the audience. This was a vital part of the whole experience.
The complete book may be consulted in the Rochdale Local Studies Library at Touchstones Rochdale. A copy is also available for loan from the reserve stock collection at the Wheatsheaf Library.
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IT'S a good while sin' aw went a pace-eggin mysel, neaw, but aw'm olez intherested i' t' Good Friday performances o' th' owd play. Who wrote that stirrin thragedy, aw wondher?
It's bin honded deawn moore bi word o' meauth nor printin. aw think, as far as Rachda gwoes, shuzheaw; for yo'll have a job to find two books alike, or any book where it's set deawn same as t' lads play it.
There's good points abeaut t' thing. Every acthor gets sum-mat to do an' say: there's no supers. abeaut, an' nobry maudlin reaund th' stage to put time on. Then, every mon tells his name an' business when he first comes in; a first-rate plan, savin a dyel o' bother an' study for anybody 'at stons hearkenin. There's no women i' t' road, noather, nobbut Dirty Bet, an' hoo doesn't ceaunt; so t' chaps con get forrad wi their wark in a business-like style, an' feight away beaut onybody meddlin wi em. Th' action never stops, for every scene's a feight in it, an' th' excitement keeps grooin whol Bet comes in wi her besom to sweep up for a finish.
An' what grand characthers they are! St. George, crowin o'er everybody, olez winnin his battles, swaggerin o'er what he has done an' what he's beaun to do; th' king ov Egypt an' his son, wi their oriental Smobridge manners; their champion, Hecthor, wi moore talk nor feight in him; t' docthor, full o' long words, lies, an' impidence; th' owd Foo, an' Beelzebub, a bigger foo again; an' above o, Bowd Slasher. That's t' chap! Noane runnin o'er wi empty brag, like St. George, olez ready for his wark, full o'gam, cured ov his weaunds in a twinkle, noane spiteful when he's licked, an' gooin off abeaut his business when he's nowt to do i' th' play. Slasher. were olez my favouryte, an' iv aw'd ever bin owt i' th' actin line, that 'd ha bin th' part for me. He comes on sthrong an' cool,
" I am a valiant soldier, and Slasher is my name,
'With sword and buckler by my, side I hope to win the game."
Then, when St. George threatens to breighk his yead, Slasher says,
"My head is made of iron,
And my body's made of steel,
My hands and feet of knuckle-bone -
-I challenge thee to feel!"
"That speech olez' made mi blood run cowd, an' wondher . heawever t' chap had bin pieced together, for aw never thought o' deaubtin his word. Then there's a grand deein scene, an' comin to life again-,a rare oppenin for good actin; an' when t' docthor's brought him reaund he sthretches eaut his glittherin swort, made ov unpolished iron lattin, sets his e'en, an' co's eaut,
"Hark! I hear the silver trumpet sound,
That summons us from off this bloody ground!
Down yonder is the way;
Farewell, St. George, we can no longer stay."
Away Slasher bowts, comin no moore whol t' last act, when he turns up again to mention 'at his yead's iron, his body steel, an' so on.
Nobbot professional pace-eggers con undherston what labbour an' brain-wark there is abeaut gettin one o' these performances up. Sworts han to be made for a start, for they're mostly oather lost or brokken between one year an' t' next. Then there's a dyel o' rehearsals to put in, particlar for St. George an' Slasher, as they'n sich big parts, an' it's no yezzy job neawadays to find a quiet nook to practise in. Mostly t' wark has to be done at a heause-end, or i' l' middle ov a sthreet, where everybody con watch th' show for nowt, makin o th' neighbours grumble. It's common enough for a woman to come runnin to her dur, stop St. George i' one ov his braggin speeches, an' sheaut,
" Na then, theere! I v yo aren't o off in a snift aw'll cob a bucket o' wayther on yo !"
It's laughable to see heal'.' th' bowd champions'll slutther off then, wi their sworts undher their arms; but they seldom getten fur nor t' next gaslamp afore they're at it again.
Aw seed a very good performance in th' oppen market o' Friday mornin; fit for ony stage. There were a full company o' star artistes, properties an' dhresses on t' usal grand scale (a bor-rowed skirt, long-brush steighl, an' egg-basket for Dirty Bet; a hawpoth o' silver nails for St. George's clogs; rosettes, sashes, an' a yard o' ribbin apiece o’ reaund), wi th' unpainted market scenery thrown in for nowt. It were a slutchy snowy mornin, but th' per-formers had shapped to get a dhry spot bi shiftin a stall or two.
St. George wortched i' th' same shade as me, so he coome up to have a word when he seed me lookin.
" Good mornin, Billy," aw said.
"Same to yo, an' mony on 'em," Billy says. "Are yo for stoppin it eaut?"
"That depends on th' actin," aw towd him. "What mak o' performers are yo?"
" Good uns !" Billy said. " AI'.' want. yo to watch us, becose we're thryin a fresh gam on.
Aw'm weary o' th' owd road o' sayin this piece-o upo' one keigh, same as a clock in hen or A skrikin pulley-so aw've bin thryin to teighch this lot to put some moore life into it, an' talk nathurallike."
"That's a good idei, Billy."
"Oh yigh! iv we're beaun to start actin let's do it reet, that's what aw say. Yo'll see noane o' thannarchin across th' ring an' knock in sworts together whol we're talkin, noather. Slasher fot o th' skin off .mi knockles t'other neet wi that thrick, so aw stopped it. There's no sense i' that mak."
" Noane at o," aw said. "Come, aw mun see th' play, aw yer."
" Ah, do !" he says, turnin to goo, everybody starin to see me talkin so intimate wi sich a greight champion. "Aw want somebdy to cricketise us a bit. Some o' t' lads is rayther numb, but aw've bin dhrillin 'em upo' Cronkeyshay this three week, so they should do summat."
Aw made one ov a lot o' folk ringed reaund, gettin a full view an' good yerin; steeped in a rich, satisfyin smell fro th' fish shops an' thripe stonnins.
They looked a very breet set o' lads, an' shapped as iv they myent business. Th' King ov Egypt an' his son had faces shinin as iv they'd bin blackleaded. Slasher had a bit ov a cowdin his yead, an' had to keep wipin his sleeve on his nose neaw an' again. Hecthor looked a fine figure ov a sodier, but were a thrifle bow-legged, an' t'Foo beseemed his part up an' deawn. They o geet ready to begin.
BEELZEBUB (aside to DIRTY BET)
Aw'm as dhry as soot, Jimmy; howd mi stick whol aw get a bottle o' lemonade up' Twod Lone.
DIRTY BET
Don't be so long, think on. We cawn't sing " Right follayrolladdy " beaut thee.
BEELZEBUB
O reet.
ST. GEORGE
Where arta for, Sam? We're beaun to start.
BEELZEBUB
Goo on. Aw'll be back i' time.
ST. GEORGE
Tha'll get no brass iv tha'rt off.
BEELZEBUB
Gullook!
(Pushes through t' creawd).
CHAP LOOKIN ON Come, lads! Are yo for shappin to-day, or not?
(Enther Foo.)
Foo Reawm, reawm, brave gallants-
BUTCHER'S LAD
(i'th' creawd) Gallants! He, he !
Foo (aside). Shur up!
(aloud)-Give us reawm to sport,
For in this spot we myen to howd a court,
An' here repeat to yo eaur merry rhyme,
For remember, good folk, it's Aysther time.
We are the merry acthors what con show yo pleasant play,
So here steps in San George to clear the way.
(Enther ST. GEORGE.)
ST. GEORGE
I am Sant George, who fro owd England sprung,
Mi famous name through o this world hath rung;
Many a bloody deed an' wondher aw've made known,
An' made th' owd tyrants thremble on their throne.
A giant nearly sthruck me dyead,
But by mi valyour aw chopped off his yead;
Aw've seeched this here world o reaund an' reaund,
But nobry nowt like me aw never fund.
GENTLEMAN
Found, my boy, found! You spoil the rhyme.
ST. GEORGE
Are yo playin in this, or me?
DIRTY BET
Hear, hear! Cob thi cap at him.
(Enther SLASHER.)
SLASHER
(sleevin his nose)
Aw am a valyunt sodier, bawd Slasher is mi name,
Wi sword an' buckle bi mi side aw hope to win this game;
For to feight wi me aw see tha'rt noane able,
So wi this here glittherin sword aw'll soon thee disable.
ST. GEORGE
Disable, saysta! it lies not i' thi peawer,
For wi this glittherin sword an' spear aw soon will thee deveaur ;
Stand off, bawd Slasher! let no moore be said,
For if I dhraw mi sword aw'm sure to breighk thi yead.
SLASHER
Heaw con ta breighk mi yead?
Mi yead's made ov iron,
Mi body's made o’ steel,
Mi honds an' feet o' knucklin bwon
Aw chanellge to make thee feel.
ST. GEORGE
(aside to Slasher)
Challenge, Joe.
SLASHER
Shut up, cliverdick ! (Wipes his sleeve.)
(Fencin-match - SLASHER dhrops - ST. GEORGE bowts -Enther Foo).
FOO
A docthor, a docthor! Ten peaund for a docthor!
(DOCTHOR steps in).
DOCTHOR
Here aw am.
FOO
Are yo a docthor?
DOCTHOR
Yes, that yo con plainly see, bi mi art an' activity.
FOO
Heaw mich to cure this dyead man?
DOCTHOR
Ten peaund is mi fee, but iv tha'rt honest aw'lI tak five off thee.
FOO (Aside)
Tha'lI be middlin fawse iv tha gets any.
(Aloud )Heaw fur han yo thravell't ?
DOCTHOR
Through Italy, Sickaly, Hee Germany, France, an' Spain;
an' so aw've returned to cure owd Englan again.
FOO
What con yo cure?
DOCTHOR
Itch, pitch, palsy, an' geaut; or iv a man's nine-teen imps in his skull aw con let twenty ov 'em eaut. Here, Jack, have a sup fro my bottle an' let it run deawn thy throttle. Iv theau be not quite slain, rise, Jack, an' fight again.
SLASHER
(gettin up) Oh, mi back! (Wipes.)
FOO
What's to do wi thi back?
SLASHER
Mi back's weaunded,
An' mi heart',s confeaunded;
Aw've bin knocked eaut o' seven wits into seven score;
Nowt like it were ne'er sin i' owd Englan never afore.
(Enther ST. GEORGE.)
SLASHER
Sang George, aw yer yon silver thrumpet seaund !
Deawn yon is the way pointin (wipes);
Farewell, Sang George, we con no longer stay.
KING OF EGYPT
(aside to Slasher)
Tha shouldn't say pointin, leatheryead! It myens tha should stick thi finger eaut, so.
(Points toard Know' Hill.)
SLASHER
It's deawn i'th' book shuzheaw; so will that do for thee?
(Poo's his book eaut an' finds it for him.)
KING
Eh, tha foo !
SLASHER
Just thee wait whol we'n done!
(Wipes his nose an' slutthers off wi t' DOCTHOR an' Foo.)
ST. GEORGE
I am Sant George, that noble champion bawd,
Wi this here good swort I've won ten theausan peaund i' gowd;
(Crack o' laugh in o reaund.)
'Twere I what fowt the fiery dhragon an' fat him unto slaughther,
An' by them means won th' owd King of Egypt's daughther.
(Enther PRINCE PARADINE.)
PRINCE
I am Prince Paradine, born ov greight reneawn,
Soon will I fot Sain George's courage deawn.
ST. GEORGE
Stand off,
Or bi my sword tha'll die;
I'll' piece thi body full ov holes,
An' make o thi buttons fly.
BUTCHER'S LAD
It met happen cut a bit o' suet iv tha leet it smell at a grindlestone.
PRINCE
Poo eaut thi sword an play, poo eaut thi brass an pay;
For aw’m beaun to have a reckoninpence
Afore aw’ll goo away!
GENTLEMAN
Recompense, boy.
PRINCE
(tumin on him wi witherin dignity)
We cawn't o be schoomaisthers. Aw'lI oather wrostle or run thee for eightpence. (Cobs his sword deawn an' shaps for boxin.)
DIRTY BET
Give o'er, Ben! Behave thisel.
PRINCE
( sulks ) Aw'm noane com'n here to be talked to bi him. Aw con do mi own clerk in. Who's he?
(Th’' champions flight afther some moore talk, an' th' Prince is kilt.)
(Enther KING OF EGYPT.)
KING
Aw'm th' owd King ov Egypt, as plainly doath appear.
CHAP NEAR HIM
He looks moore like a doffer, a lump.
KING
Lemme a-be! Aw'm th' owd King ov Egypt.
BEELZEBUB
(eautside) Here, hutch up! Let's come through, some on yo.
FAT CHAP
Tha'lI come noane through me. Goo reaund, an' stop that shovin, or aw'l I lond thee one.
KING
Make a less din i' that nook,! Aw'm th' owd King Ov Egypt
BEELZEBUB
Reighch mi stick o'er, Jimmy; we'll see whether aw'm comin in or not.
(Pushes his road through.)
That's betther ! Ger on withi actin, Snowbo.
KING
Aw'll gie thee Snowbo in abeaut hawve a minute. Aw'm th' owd King ov Egypt
PARADINE
(on his back, dyead)
Heaw mony times yet? Ger on wi thee?
KING
Well, what done they keep agate on me for?
Aw've com'n a seechin mi long-lost son an' heir.
ST. GEORGE
He's kil't.
KING
Who did him slay, who did him kill,
An' on this greaund his precious blood did spill ?
ST. GEORGE
I did him slay, etc.
KING
Oh, Hecthor! Hecthor! help me wi speed,
l' o mi life aw ne'er stood moore i' need.
(Enther HECTHOR.)
HECTHOR
Yes, yes, mi lige, aw will obey,
An' wi this here swort hope to win the day;
Iv this is him stonnin theere
At kil't yor long-lost son an' heer,
Whether he's sprung fro ryal flood,
Aw'lI make him run like Noah's blood,
ST. GEORGE
Bowd Hecthor! dunnot be so wot,
For here tha knows naught who tha's got;
I'll inch thee, an' cut smo as flies,
Send thee o'er th' say to make mince pies -
Mince pies wot an' mince pies cowd,
afore tha'rt three days old!
HECTHOR
Heaw con tha inch me, cut me smo as flies,
Send me o'er th' say, etc.
(Enther SLASHER, nosin his sleeve.)
SLASHER
Howd, Sang George! Stay thi valyour bawd!
Mi yead's made ov iron,
Mi body's made o' steel,
Mi honds an' feet o' knucklin-bwon
Aw chanellge to make thee feel!
TH' OWD WEIGHVER
(Just behind him)
It's challenge, Joe. Tha's bin towd afore.
SLASHER
(turnin an' wipin)
Yo'n naught to do wi it, as aw know on.
HECTHOR
(to PARADlNE)
Tha'rt lyin fair i' l' road, Paregoric; we'n no reawm to feight. Rowl o'er once.
(PARADINE rowls ST. GEORGE an' HECTHOR set to)
HECTHOR
Howd on a bit! Tha's knocked mi sword croot.
BUTCHER'S LAD
It'll match thi legs then. Tha'll ne'er be weaunded i' bwoth knees at once.
ANOTHER LAD
He wain't that! They'll ha no need to buy callipers where that man wortches.
HECTHOR
Somebry's beaun to get punced afore so long!
BUTCHER'S LAD
Ah! tha'll do some puncin wi thoose' feet. Heighve one leg up an' tha'll wart o'er on t'other.
HECTHOR (gettin mad)
Aw'll talk to thee fur on, slink beef! Tha'rt noane woth stewin.
(Sthraightens his sword, gets it knocked croot again, an' worts o'er weaunded.)
HECTHOR
Aw'm a bowd an' valyunt knight, Hecthor is mi name,
Mony a bloody battle aw've fowtl an' olez won the same;
Fro Sank George's hond aw geet this here Bloody weaund
Howd on! Aw yer yon silver thrumpet seaund--
CHAP I' TH' CREAWD
Tha lies, too.
HECTHOR
Deawn yon is the way
(pointin west wi his arm,- an' northerly wi his croot sword),
Farewell, Sank George! aw cannot longer stay.
CHAP
Nobry wants thee to do. Tha shaps some wooden!
HECTHOR
Oh ah! Heaw con a chap act wi o this here gam gooin on? Tha wouldn't like it thysel, aw'lI bet!
BEELZEBUB
Here steps in owd Beelzebub,
An' o'er mi shooldher aw carry a club,
An' in one bond a fryin pon,
An' aw think mysel a jolly owd mon.
Right follayrol, etc,
Then, as Dirty Bet (ornamented wi four finger marks o' one cheek an' a sooty sthripe fro chin-end ta faryead) were settin up a dismal yeawl reckon't to be singin, aw thought it hee time to be shappin for off. Aw left St. George swaggerin reaund wur con-saited nor ever, Paradine's corpse sittin up on th' battle fielt talkin to th' owd king, an' bowd Slasher stonnin near dhrawin his sleeve across his nose.
