thy evere lovving mother
Sara Chail
Sonday 17 daye of the instan 1775 sept Surley rew Ulv
Deerst sun francis
plees replye a meditly els thy mamy shalt die my son off greeve Mr P tak thi to the wagon God speed itt I praye itt bent be cort when bee the day I shll buck thy weddin shirt & soe as itt hev a ter you mus look trimm thee mus replye
thy loving motther
Sarah Shail
Sundaye 1st dae of thi insant Oct 1775 Surley row Ulvoton
My son francis
thy leter was sh verry shoart the bee poorely shore enohg it were vingern hissop at the mowthe wot thee donne taikin that hat I minds i when thee wer danglin att my duggs they still be teart when i minds I tha thee wer a guzslerer al rite nowe theell be danglin wi all off lunnen lookin upp an lahging alover they faices Mr P hev his shoos on a brickc itt be the wett God hev massy on thee rite emeedittly gie itt to the laddy at the gaite Mr P brothr paye hur he saye Noogait be a terble stink fro the strit
thy lovin mothe
Sara Shail
her bee cow slipp for the cramps
Sunday 15 daye off this insan Oct 1775 surley Rowe Ulvetane
My dear francis my ownly sum,
I hev writ to the King wi Mr Ps hande it shall moov they stoney hartes think on yr sole an pray to God judith saye you hev the tyfoit shee hev thi from john witeacre as hed itt fro a mann on the coche as hev jus lef thy side his naime bee Tom bolt he sais the hev ratts bigern ours an you bee bit an swoln lord hev massy on uss all i ont bare itt wen I thinks on thee lnnen bee a wickit plaice tha hats blo off temtay shin rite how thee bee I hev a blakk spott on my dugg as be lik fier very sor
thy ever lovein mothr
Sara Shail
Sunday 29th daye of thinsan Oct 1775 Surlyrow Ulverten
My lam
thy leter tinds the fier of my destes I bourn and they dam jintlemen & pasens ooll swing fro al ower heeles sas Mr P the all hev ther tung in the kings ars ower lorde charls be mity chufd at the noose ses judith tha bee yr pochin dayes las weeke he wer blubbrin att all his swanns ther craws wer slitt judith ses the laik wer redd fro they crooel crooel burn thi inn the fier tell thy mammy my lam wen the daye bee theell com back hear arter ward for christern berry ole my son my lam wee be detarmied to fine the shillns uppon my worde
thy loving mother
Sara Shal
her bee clivers leef grind upp for thy tyfoit feavr
Sunday 12th day of this inst Novr 1775 Suleyrowe Ulver
My deer lam francis
wot my son be cutt up inn to ribons wot bee they sur jans jantlemen of the divil too cut upp my owern sun no hand oll toch thee a hare of thy hed els dam my eies an dam this fifly gurnray of engelin for barin my boddy an thine this woreld hev no massy itt makes my blakk spott biggern afore it maks my eies teart it makkes i blas feeme agin God an al His workes it maks i scroop an skweel like ower doore as thee met bee mendin nowe we shll cum onn a waggern by nite wen bee the daye my lam if so bee as thee ent took afore with thy feverswet an fiflth my lam
thy loveng mother
Sara Shail
use this papper atwen the lines
P.S. mark itt bee TRANS POTASHIN for caryin thy cowpse aff I hope ye nkose that
john Pounds tailr
Sunday 19th daye o this instan Novr 1775 Surley rowe Ulverton
My lovly lam my son francis
thy mark on the papper came Mr P red itt the numbers i dint paye a penny so the daye be March 31st it bee lik a nale in in my hed Mr Ps brother oll bring thee yr shirte as I hev cleend & lef owt al nite in the moon lite itt maide itt verry wite for thee do you hev a blaide to cutt yr hares & chin you mus be trimm all of lunnen ool be theyar an the famly thy wilfe were heyre yes erdaye shee ses you med hev com bakk wi a sakk o shillns stead of thy cowpse i sed bekky thare ont bee no cowpse hole to berry iff so bee as wee ent at Ti bourne lik yo saye my dov my lam to saiv thee fro them sur jans bluddy dam villions wi their nives & spesely sores i dont heyar swaldld bells francis wiout I heyar thy deth bell tang
lord hav marsy on thee in thy aflition
thy greefing mother
Sara Shail
P.S. hav you frends enouhg to cary it aff els weell be took al so
john Pounds tailer
Sundaye 3rd day off this ins Dec 1775 Surly Rowe Ullverton
My deesrt lam Francis
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