Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

wot bee a mother to du in her destres I mus kape my reaserlusen i bee deturmed thee ooll niver be inn too bluddy ribons them bludy villions dont feear my lam my dov they ont laye a hand onn thee untill the our of djudgemen cometh like a wind an mammon bee strukk down they oll riggle like rabets in thy nette thee soed tha nette weeakes & weeakes by can delelite Mr Ps bro ses a thy hands wer spreethd wi weltin they filfly walls my son thee mawnt be roonin thy hands as mus bee layed on my dugg to heale thy mammy thy swet mus make hole an all so mary oadm for her baren bely thy ded handes mus rub & gie life a noo my sun danglin man danglin man 3 lives fro thee I carste thee forth fro my woom my chitt I gied thee iverry mosel afore my owern mowth you ont bee carste inn too hell fier they had best dokk I all so afor I hare on thy hed bournes my dovv rite a meditly & gie itt to hur att the gaite Mr Ps bro gie her a shilln las time Mr P be a bleesin to a poore wido we bee al in extreem destres ther ent a lofe for chirlidern or narn onn us a tall we gates the rine & they gates the leen sartainly dam they euies

thy every loving mothr

sara Shail

P.S. weyar to find 7 shillns for the hang man you aks too much heell taik 7 shilln an likewise fro the sur jans an tye the not tihgt jus the saim I hev seed itt my sealfe aksept thy LOT an praye

john Pounds tailer

Sundaye eve of ower Lords Birthe 1775 Suleyrowe Ulv

My deerst lam francis my owern sun

pleese rite emeeditly I feear you med bee ded we be shramd wi this terbl cawld Mr P hev a terbl hackin caf I dun hev morn 2 stikk to bourne think on thy poore mammy my son as bee ded ripe for diin save shee mus kape her sonn hole for berryal my blakk spot be grawin

thy greefin mothr

Sara Shaill

P.S. gie yr leter to my brothr wen he cums

john Pounds tailr

Sunday 7th daye of this yer of ower lord 1776 Surley rowe Ul

My deesrt owernly francis

Mr Ps bro com heyar for kursmas feste he ses he seed thee in tha fifly stinkin plaice wi no winndoes he hed to spitt els he odd bee feverd he brung the leter dont rite such terbl things I ent afeart of no hawn tings i hev my hor shoo i ent nevar seed the wite shepard on the rode you ont be cutt upp my dov Mr P ses you ont be hawnting & trubling us if they teres thee up spesely iff they sores upp thy hed butt you ont bee wi thy famealy cumin to taik thee dowen afore them bludy villions they sur jans as di sec ses Mr P they ont tuch a hare of my sunns hed as I gied my owern milk too wot wd thy poore dadda saye nowe I mus stop acos Mr P hev bin heyare al arte noon wi his tung stukk out ritin my foyce think on last things & thy sole this noo yeyar ent bee no beter sartin lee I hev coursed they bugers they hares ooll dropp out I bye I.

thy loving mammy

Sara Snail

Mr P ooll gie thi to the karrier for 2 peny he bee too kinde

P.S. wot yo esespect our lord sufered & was not saivd by shillns aksept thy LOT ladd & maik pese wi thy maiker yo al wais wer a dail too cokk shore

john Pounds tailer

Sundaye 21st daye othi inst Jany 1776 Surly rowe ulvertone

Deerst my lamfrancis,

I hev wri to the king a gin butt Mr P ses that wer sartainly steelin tha hat as did blo of medbee lord Charls did hev a hande in itt hee du hate thee for pochin his dere my sonn med bee I ooll plede onn my nkees afore his caridge iff it don stop theyars an end for my sealfe wot wd we du a thout Mr P no my sonn he be duin thi for nort save an ol widers lov ther ent nort evill in thatt thee ont be carsting thy loose tung on uss thee alers wer a jumm per francis leefin thy mamy for gone to lunnen an steelin hats they hev hores morn hares on my hed not Mr P as hev hed the pawsley he bee lahgin wot els sav yowelin wen itt be so terbl cawld an hollo the mus praye for uss thee mus praye mend thy wayes in thes las weeakes my lam

thy lovin mather

Sara Snail

P.S. dont rite such tthings agin shee be a fiene ooman by God

john Pounds tailer

Sundaye 4th daye of thi inst Febr 1776 Surley rowe ulver

My deere Sonne

if you rite such wordes agin wee ont bee cumin be thee hole in spririt to rite such tthings thee mus be paceant thee mus spectect the wurs if thee dont dangel thee ooll be for trans pottashin like Kristern brin Judith ses as you oll bee wontin us to hang on thy heeles arter the kart hev lef thee danglin butt I ses no he wonts uss to cut he dowern afore the sur jans doo she ses that ll bee a grate fite wot do thee think thy mother owern mother her sealf ont be savin her sonne dont rite such tthing francis it bee more teart than my blakk spott tha thy han mus mend thy hans were al wais fine at mendin I stil hev thy net hidd I stroak itt it at nite itt hev thy smel my dovv wot bee a poore wido to du haaf frastid in this winer cawld to gett thee free I praye too the lorde an saye my rimes al nite

thy loving mamy

Sara Snail

P.S. shee bee trwely suffereing els I odd stopp riting dreckly ye be a dying man so mind yr sole youer self ladd

john Pounds Tailer

Sundaye the 18 daye of thisint Febry 1776 Surly row Ulver

Deer francis

thee mus replye thee mawnt fal in too desespare I be verry hungarye I dremed las nite of the apel thee colard for I outer the Manoor orchut thy litel fingars opt an ther wer the apel for thy mammy braive boy it still taist swet on my tung (shee bee weepin nowe john Pounds) I hev soed thy trowsers Mr P gied i the thred wen I smoothd they owt it wer crinlked intoo them shapes that mean a deth i dont need no sine rite on this papper iff yo dont hev no penies lef medbee that hatt it were coursed a divils hatt to temp thee th wurk howse for I nowe my lam mind yr sole rite a meaditly

thy loving mother

Sara Shail

P.S. you mus hele her blakk spot else itt wil kil hur stark ded hev massy on thy mother ladd wee ent faint hartes as ye saye but we ent fooles neithr

john Pounds tailer

Sundaye the 3rd daye oth instan March 1776 Surly row Ulv

My deerst boy my lam

wot thee be sufferein in thy sole to saye such terbl tthings I bee strukk dum heyar bee wett an stinkin an hollo I hev a caf an Mr P al so I odd cutt aff my dugg for thee I hev no shillns to paye for a coffen or srowd butt thy wilfe saye she hev aksed thee a for but thee hev spend yr monny on bere an gaiming & hev kep nun inn yr poket nowe thee mite du goode a for the lord or the divil taiks thee thy sole med be yowlin danglin owver hell fier wen thy hande med press on my dugg an the Lord sees itt bee good an collers thee for hevn dreckly minut my blakk spott be heled by thy swet thy lipps hev bin a bowt my dugg lang a goe now thee mus mend hur my lam my dovv praye & dont deseper that bee tem tashin wuss tha a fine hatt as blows aff in the strit do thee hev a blaide to shave thy chinn an thy bootes mus be spik or the famealy ont be proude

God bless

fro thy evere loving mothr

Sara Shail

thy wordes were borning firebrans to my hart an Mr P al so he hev spend shillns for thy sak francis

P.S. I hev nott rubd thy mothers dugg with my lipps to maik a spott you mus not slan dere thy mother tthink on djudgement daye thy dam tung wil bourne thee ye mus aproch thy las ower with a clene hart wot I saye be trwe by God hur spott be gurt as a shilln peese an hard ye mus hele itt

john Pounds tailr

Sondaye the 17th daye of thi instan March 1776 surly row ulver

My owernly deerst sun francis

this bee ower las letter a for thy hangin daye judith ses thee be brort owt ope neckd & theyar bee a mos terble ror wind aff that gert bigg river run too the armes of the lord he shalt cuvver thy nekk & holt thy hed hi them as larf ont larf at dums daye heyar be catt ment for thy gritt putt it aneath thy tung dreckly minut they karts thee upp the strit my lam you ont bee blulbrin an maikin i a shamd I shll waive my shorl itt bee the redd wone you mus waive too yr mamy in yr wite finery my buntin abram Web oll mak the coffen thy wilfe hev scrapd shillns for hee ol sam daye wen upp a tree & playd God an frited abram haaf to dearth I hopes thee be lahgin at tha my lam thee odd yowl in the awld dayes my chitt judith shell gie the floures to thee for i shll bee watin att the galowes tree dont shaim uss nowe rite yr las leter but dont rite terbl tthings my dovv