James Burnley (Born 1842)
Whats this? A letter thro'(1) Jim?God bless him! What has he to say?Here, Lizzie, my een's gettin' dim,Just read it, lass, reight straight away.Tha trem'les, Liz. What is there up?Abaat thy awn cousin tha surely can read;His ways varry oft has made bitter my cup,But theer—I forgive him—read on, niver heedThat's it—"as it leaves me at present "—His father's expression to nowt!Go on, lass, t' beginnin's so pleasantIt couldn't be mended wi' owt.What's that? He has "sent a surprise"?What is 't, lass? Go on! a new gaan, I'll be bun',Or happen a nugget o' famous girt size;Whativer it is it's t' best thing under t' sun.Ay, lad, I dare say, "life is rough,"For t' best on 't is nut varry smooth;I' England it's hilly enough,Niver name wi' them diggers uncouth.But theer, Liz, be sharp an' let's have his surprise.I'm capt(2) wheer tha's gotten that stammerin' cough,Tha reads a deal better nor that when tha tries.Good gracious! What's t' matter? Shoo's fainted reight off!Hey! Lizzie, tha flays(3) me; coom here,An' sit wheer tha'll get some fresh air:Tha'rt lookin' so bad at I fearTha's much war(4) nor I were aware.That's reight, lass, get tul it once more,Just read reight to t' end on 't, an' thenWe'll just tak a walk for a bit aat o' t' door,Whol tha feels rayther more like thisen.What! Bless us! Aar Jim gotten wed!It is a surprise, on my word.Who is she? That's all at he's said?I wish then I niver had heard.At one time I thowt happen thee he'd admire,An' that's haa we all sud have liked it to be.Bud, sithee! What's that, Liz, at's burnin' on t' fire?It's t' ribbin Jim bowt thee! Ay, ay, lass, I see.1. From. 2. Puzzled. 3. Frightenest. 4. Worse.
George Lancaster (Born 1846)Good day to you, Misther skealmaisther,the evenin' is desperate fine,I thowt I wad gie ye a call abootthat young sonnie o' mine.I couldn't persuade him to come,sea I left him behont(1) me at yam,(2)Bud somehoo it's waintly(3) possess'd meto mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.He's a kind of a slack-back, ye knaw,I niver could get him to work,He scarcelins wad addle(4) his sautwiv a ploo, or a shovel, or fork.I've tried him agean an' agean,bud I finnd that he's nea use at yam,Sea me an' my missus agreedto mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.If I sends him to wark, why, he'll chunther(5)an' gie me the a awfullest leaks,He'd a deal rayther lig upo' d' sofywi' novels an' them soort o' beaks.Sea I thowt a skealmaisther wad suit him,a lowse soort o' job, do ye see,Just to keep a few bairns oot o' mischief,as easy as easy can be.Of coorse you've to larn 'em to coont,an' to figure a bit, an' to read,An' to sharpen 'em up if they're numskulls,wiv a lalldabber(6) ower their heead,Bud it's as easy as easy, ye knaw,an' I think it wad just suit oor Sam,An' my missus, she's just o' my mind,for she says that he's nea use at yam.It was nobbut this mornin' I sent himto gan an' to harrow some land,He was boamin'(7) asleep upo' d' fauf,(8)wiva rubbishly beak iv his hand;I gav him a bunch(9) wi' my feat,an' rattled him yarmin'(10) off yam.Sea I think that I'll send him to you,you mun mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.He's a stiff an' a runty(1) young fellow,I think that' he'll grow up a whopper,He'd wallop the best lad you've got,an' I think he wad wallop him proper;Bud still he's a slack-back, ye knaw,an' seein' he's nea use at yam,I think I shall send him to you,you mun mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.1. Behind. 2. Home. 3 Strangely. 4.Earn.5. Grumble. 6. Cuff. 7. Trailing along.8. Fallow. 9. Kick. 10. Whining.
W. H. Oxley"What! Margery, still at your windowIn this blinding storm and sleet!Why, you can't see your hand before you,And I scarce could keep my feet."Why, even the coast-guards tell meThat they cannot see the sand;And we know, thank God, that the coblesAnd yawls have got to land."There's five are safe at Scarbro',And one has reach'd the Tyne,And two are in the Humber,And one at Quay,(2) makes nine.""Aye, aye, I'd needs be watchful,There's niver a soul can tell,An' happen 'twixt yan o' t' snaw-blints(3)Yan mud catch a glimpse o' t' bell."I reckon nowt o' t' coast-guards!What's folks like them to say?There's neer a yan amang 'emKnaws owt aboot oor bay."I's niver leave my winderWhiles there's folks as has to droon;An' it wadna be the first timeAs I've help'd ta wakken t' toon."I isn't good for mich noo,For my fourscore years is past;But I's niver quit my winder,As long as life sal last."'Twas us as seed them FrenchmenAs wreck'd on Speeton sands;'Twas me as seed that schoonerAs founder'd wi' all hands."'Twas me first spied oor coblesReight ower t' end o' t' Brig,That time when all was droonded;I tell'd 'em by there rig.(4)"Aye, man, I's neen sae drowsy,Don't talk o' bed to me;I's niver quit my winder,Whiles there's a moon to see."Don't talk to me o' coast-guards!What's them to sike as me?They hasn't got no husbands,No childer, lost i' t' sea."It's nobbut them at's felt it,As sees as I can see;It's them as is deead alreadyKnaws what it is to dee."Ye'd niver understan' me;God knaws, as dwells above,There's hearts doon here, lives, broken,What's niver lost their love."But better noo ye'd leave me,I's mebbe not misen;We fisher-folks has troublesNo quality can ken."1. Thick-set. 2. Bridlington.3. Snow-storms. 4. Dress.
Edmund HattonI believe aar Maggie's coortin',For shoo dresses hersen so smart,An' shoo's allus runnin' to t' windowWhen there's ony o' t' chaps abaat:Shoo willent wear her owd shawl,Bud dons a bonnet atstead,(1)An' laps her can in her gaanAs shoo goes to t' weyvin' ,shed.Of a neet wi' snoddened(2) hair,An' cheeks like a summers cherry,An' lips fair assin'(3) for kisses,An' een so black an' so merry,Shoo taks her knittin' to t' meadows,An' sits in a shady newk,An' knits while shoo sighs an' watchesWi' a dreamy, lingerin' lewk.Thus knittin', sighin' an' watchin',Shoo caars(4) aat on t' soft meadow grass,Listenin' to t' murmurin' brooklet,An' waitin' for t' sweethear't to pass;Shoo drops her wark i' her appron,An' glints aat on t' settin' sun,An' wonders if he goes a-courtin'When his long day's wark is done.When shoo hears t' chap's fooitsteps comin',Shoo rises wi' modest grace;Ay, Mag, thou sly, lovin' lassie,For shame o' thy bashful face!Shoo frames(5) to be goin' home'ards,As he lilts ower t' stile,Bud when he comes anent(6) herr,Shoo gies him sich a smile.Then he places his arm araand her,An' shoo creeps cloise to his side,An' leyns her heead on his waiscoit,An' walks wi' an air o' pride.Bud oh! you sud see her glances,An' oh! you sud hear 'em kiss,When they pairt thro' one another!If shoo isn't coortin', who is?1. Instead. 2. Smoothed out. 3. Asking.4. Cowers, lies. 5. Makes pretence. 6. Beside.
Parson Drew Thro' Pudsey (1st Ed)orT' First o' t' Sooart (2nd Ed)John HartleyFrom pp 135, 136, 75, 76 and 77 of second edition.I heeard a funny tale last neet,I couldn't howd frae laughin' ;'Twere at t' Bull's Head we chonced to meet,An' spent an haar i' chaffin'.Some sang a song, some cracked a joke,An' all seemed full o' larkin' ;An' t' raam were blue wi' bacca smoke,An' ivery ee 'd a spark in.Long Joe at comes thro' t' Jumples CloughWere gettin' rayther mazy,An' Warkus Ned had supped enoughTo turn their Betty crazy,An' Bob at lives at t' Bogeggs farm,Wi' Nan thro' t' Buttress Bottom,Were treatin' her to summat warm-It's just his way. Odd drot 'em!An' Jack o' t' Slade were theer as weel,An' Joe o' Abe's thro' Waerley,An' Lijah off o' t' Lavver HillWere passin' th' ale raand rarely.Thro' raand an' square they seemed to meetTo hear or tell a story,But t' gem o' all I heeard last neetWere one by Doad o' t' Glory.He bet his booits at it were true,An' all seemed to believe him;Though if he lost he needn't rue,But 't wodn't done to grieve him.His uncle lived it Pudsey taan,An' practised local praichin';An' if he 're lucky, he were baanTo start a schooil for taichin'.But he were takken vary ill,He felt his time were comin';They say he browt it on hisselWi' studyin' his summin.He called his wife an' neighbours inTo hear his deein' sarmon,An' telled 'em if they lived i' sinTheir lot 'd be a warm 'un.Then, turnin' raand unto his wife,Said, "Mal, tha knaws, owd craytur,If I'd been blest wi' longer lifeI might hae left things straighter.Joe Sooithill owes me eighteen pence;I lent it him last love-feast."Says Mall, "He hasn't lost his sense,Thank God for that at least.""An' Ben o' t' top o' t' bank, tha knows,We owe him one paand ten.""Just hark," says Mally, "theer he goes,He's ramellin' agean.""Don't tak a bit o' notice, folk;You see, poor thing, he's ravin'.It cuts me up to hear sich talk;He's spent his life i' savin'.""An', Mally lass," he said agean,"Tak heed o' my direction,T' schooil owes me hauf a craan, I meanMy share o' t' last collection.Tha'll see to that an' have what's fair,When my poor life is past."Says Mally, "Listen, I declare,He's sensible at last."He shut his een and sank to rest,Death seldom claimed a better;They put him by, bud what were t' best,He sent 'em back a letter,To tell' em all haa he'd goan on,An' haa he gate to enter,An' gav 'em rules to act uponIf iver they sud ventur.Saint Peter stood wi' keys i' hand,Says he, "What do ye want, sir,If to go in, you understand,Unknown to me, you can't, sir.Pray what's your name? Where are ye thro'(3)?Just make your business clear?",Says he, "They call me 'Parson Drew,'I've come thro' Pudsey here.""Ye've come thro' Pudsey, do ye say?Don't try sich jokes on me, sir;I've kept these doors too long a day,I can't be fooled by thee, sir."Says Drew; "I wodn't tell a lieFor t' sake o' all there's in it,If ye've a map o' England by,I'll show you in a minute."So Peter gate a time-table,They gloor'd(4) ower t' map together,An' Drew did all at he were able,But couldn't find it either.At last says he, "There's Leeds Taan Hall,An' there stands Bradford's Mission;It's just between them two—that's all,Your map's an old edition."Bud theer it is—I'll lay a craan;—An' if ye've niver knawn it,Ye've miss'd a bonny Yorkshire taan,Though monny be at scorn it."He oppen'd t' gate; says he, "It's timeSomebody coom—I'll trust thee;—Tha'll find inside no friends o' thine,Tha'rt first at's coom thro' Pudsey."1. Makes pretence. 2. Beside.3. From. 4. Stared.
AnonymousFrom The Nidderdill Olminao, 1875,edited by "Nattie Nidds" (Pateley Bridge).Attention all, baith great an' small,An' doan't screw up your feaces;While I rehearse i' simple verse,A count o' Pateley Reaces.Fra all ower moors they com by scoresGirt skelpin'(1) lads an' lasses;An' cats an' dogs, an' coos an' hogs,An' horses, mules an' asses.Awd foaks were thar, fra near an' far,At couldn't fairly hopple;An' laffin' brats, as wild as cats,Ower heeads an' heels did topple.The Darley lads arrived i' squads,Wi' smiles all ower their feaces;An' Hartwith youths, wi' screwed-up mooths,In wonder watched the reaces.Fra Menwith Hill, and Folly Gill,Thorngat, an' Deacon Paster,Fra Thruscross Green, an' t' Heets Were seenCroods coomin' thick an' faster.'Tween Bardin Brigg and Threshfield RigAwd Wharfedeale gat a thinnin';An' Ger'ston plods(2) laid heavy oddsOn Creaven Lass for winnin'.Sich lots were seen o' Hebdin Green,Ready sean on i' t' mornin',While Aptrick chaps, i' carts and traps,Were off to Pateley spornin'.(3)All Greenho Hill, past Coddstone's kill,(4)Com toltherin'(5) an' singin',Harcastle coves, like sheep i' droves,Awd Palmer Simp were bringin'.Baith short an' tall, past Gowthit Hall,Tup dealers kept on steerin',For ne'er before, roond Middles Moor,Had there been sich a clearin'.All kinds and sorts o' games an' sports,Had Pateley chaps provided,An' weel did t' few their business doAt ower 'em all persided.'T'wad tak a swell a munth to tellAll t' ins an' t' oots o' t' reaces,Hoo far they ran, which horses wan,An' which were back'd for pleaces.Awd Billy Broon lost hauf a croonWi' Taty-Hawker backin',For Green Crag flew, ower t' hurdles true,An' wan t' match like a stockin'.An' Creaven Lass won lots o' brass,Besides delightin' t' Brockils,An' Eva danc'd, an' rear'd and pranc'd;An gif(6) she stood o' cockles.But t' donkey reace were star o' t' pleace,For awd an' young observers;'Twad meade a nun fra t' convent runAn' ne'er again be nervous.Tom Hemp fra t' Stean cried oot, "Weel dean,"An' t' wife began o' chaffin';Whal Kirby Jack stack up his back,An' nearly brast wi' laffin'.Sly Wilsill Bin, fra een to chin,Were plaister'd up wi' toffy,An' lang-leg Jane, he browt frae t' Plain,Full bent on winnin' t' coffee.Young pronsy(7) flirts, i' drabbl'd skirts,Like painted peeacocks stritches(8);While girt chignons like milkin'-cansOn their top-garrits perches.Fat Sal fra' t' Knott scarce gat to t' spot,Afore she lost her bustle,Which sad mishap quite spoil'd her shap,An' meade her itch an' hustle.Lile pug-nosed Nell, fra Kettlewell,Com in her Dolly Vardin,All frill'd an' starch'd she proodly march'dWi' squintin' Joe fra Bardin.Tha're cuffs an' falls, tunics an' shawls,An' fancy pollaneeses,All sham displays, ower tatter'd stays,An' hard-worn ragg'd chemises.Tha're mushroom fops, fra' fields an' shops,Fine cigarettes were sookin',An' lots o' youths, wi' beardless mooths,All kinds o' pipes were smookin'.An' when at last the sports were past,All heamward turn'd their feaces;To ne'er relent at e'er they spentA day wi' Pateley Reaces.1. Huge 2. Grassington labourers.3. Spurring. 4. Kiln. 5. Hobbling.6. If 7. Over-dressed. 8. Strut about.
Ben TurnerWhativer task you tackle, lads,Whativer job you do,I' all your ways,I' all your days,Be honest through an' through:Play cricket.If claads oppress you wi' their gloom,An' t' sun seems lost to view,Don't fret an' whine,Ask t' sun to shine,An' don't o' livin' rue:Play cricket.If you're i' debt, don't growl an' grunt,An' wish' at others hadT' same want o' luck;But show more pluck,An' ne'er mak others sad:Play cricket.If in your days there's chonce to doGood deeds, then reight an' fair,Don't hesitate,An' wait too late,An' say you'n(1) done your share:Play cricket.We've all a row to hoe, that's true,Let's do it best we can;It's nobbut onceWe have the chonceTo play on earth the man:Play cricket.1. You have.
E. DowningNay, I'm moithered,(1) fairly maddled,(2)What's a "nicker-peck"(3) to do?My owd brain's a egg that's addled,Tryin' to see this matter through.Here's a strappin' young inspector—Dacent lad he is, an' all—Says all things mun be correct, orI shall have to climb the pole.Says as all my bonny pigeonsAs I keep wi' me i' t' shop,Mun be ta'en to other regions;Here the law wain't ler 'em stop.Says as how my little terrierMun foind kennellin' elsewheer.I expect awst(4) have to bury 'er;Shoo'll rest nowheer else bur(5) here.Says as I mun wear a appronThroo my shoulder to my knee;An' (naa, listen! this puts t' capper on)Says how cleanly it mun be.Each ten men mun have a basin,Fastened, mark you, fixed and sure,For to wesh ther hands and face in;Not to throw it aat o' door.There's to be two ventilators,In good order and repair;Us at's short o' beef an' taters,Has to fatten on fresh air.Each shop floor mun be substantial-Concrete, pavement, wood, or brick-So that water from the branch'llKeep the dust from lyin' thick.An' for iv'ry bloomin' stiddie(6)There's so many cubic feet,We'st(7) ha' room to play at hiddie(8)Us at isn't aat i' t' street.Eh, I can't tell hauf o' t' tottle(9)Of these Regulations steep;I expect a suckin'-bottleWill be t' next we have to keep.Eh! I know, mun! who knows better?It's for t' good of all, is this.Iv'rybody's teed to t' letter,'Cause o' t' few at's done amiss.Eytin' leead-dust brings leead-colic,Sure as mornin' brings the day.Does te think at iver I'll lickThumb and fingers' dirt away?Well, good-bye, my good owd beauty—Liberty, naa left to few!Since the common-weal's my duty,Dear owd Liberty—adieu!1. Perplexed. 2. Bewildered. 3. File-cutter.4. I shall. 5. But. 6. Stithy7. We shall. 8. Hide and seek. 9. Total.
John Malham-DemblebyYe may bring me gowd bi t' bowlful,Gie me lands bi t' mile,Fling me dewy roses,Stoor(1) set on my smile.Ye may caar(2) ye daan afoor me,Castles for me build,Twine me laurel garlands,Let sweet song be trilled.Ye may let my meyt be honey,Let my sup be wine,Gie me haands an' hosses,Gie me sheep an' kine.Yit one flaid(3) kuss fra her would gieSweeter bliss to meNor owt at ye could finnd to name,Late(4) ye through sea tul sea.I've seen her hair gleam gowdenIn t' Kersmas yollow sun,An' ivery inch o' graand she treeadsBelang her sure it mun.Her smile is sweet as roses,An' sweeter far to me,An' praad she hods her heead up,As lass o' heigh degree.Bonnie are green laurel leaves,I'd sooiner my braa feelT' laughin' lips o' t' lass I love,Though bays be varry weel.I'm varry fond o' singin',What bonnier could beNor my fair lass hersen agate(5)A-singin' love to me?It's reight to live on spice an' sich,An' sup a warmin' glass,But sweet-stuff's walsh,(6) an' wine is cowd,Aside my lovely lass.Tak ye your haands an' hosses,Tak ye your sheep an' kine;To finnd my lass ower t' hills I'll ride,She sal be iver mine.1. Value. 2. Cower. 3. Trembling.4. Search. 5. Busy. 6. Insipid.
Richard BlakeboroughIt's neet an' naa we're here, lads,We're in for gooid cheer, lads;Yorkshiremen we all on us are,Yorkshiremen for better or war(1);We're tykes an' we're ghast(2) uns,We're paid uns an' fast uns,Awther for better or awther for war!All t' lotThen shaat till ye've gor hooast,(3) lads,Sing, Yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads,Wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads,Wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans,(4) lads."There's some at nooan are here, lads,Forger em we sal ne'er, lads;Yorkshiremen they all on 'em war,Yorkshiremen yit all on 'em are.There's thrang(5) uns an' looan(6) uns,There's wick uns an' gooan uns,They're all reight somewheer, an' we 'st be no war!All t' lotThen shaat till ye've gor hooast, lads,Sing, "Yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads,Wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads,Wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans, lads."1. Worse. 2. Spirited. 3. Got hoarse.4. Children. 5. Busy. 6. Lonely
F. J. NewboultOwd Winter gat notice to quit,'Cause he'd made sich a pigsty o' t' place,An' Summer leuked raand when he'd flit,An' she says, I"t's a daanreyt disgrace!Sich-like ways!I niver did see sich a haase to come intuli' all my born days!But Spring says, "It's my job, is this,I'll sooin put things streyt, niver fear.Ye go off to t' Spaws a bit, Miss,An' leave me to fettle up here!"An' sitha!Shoo's donned a owd appron, an' tucked up her sleaves,an' set to, with a witha!Tha can tell, when t' hail pelts tha like mad,At them floors bides a bit of a scrub;Tha knaws t' flegstuns mun ha' been bad,When she teems(1) aat all t' wotter i' t' tub.Mind thy eyes!When shoo gets hod o' t' long brush an' sweeps aat them chamers,I'll tell tha, t' dust flies!Whol shoo's threng(2) tha'll be best aat o' t' gate(3):Shoo'll care nowt for soft tawk an' kisses.To tell her thy mind, tha mun waitWhol shoo's getten things ready for t' missis.When shoo's done,Shoo'll doff her owd appron, an' slip aat i' t' garden,an' call tha to come.Aye, Summer is t' roses' awn queen,An' shoo sits i' her state, grandly dressed;But Spring's twice as bonny agean,When shoo's donned hersen up i' her bestGaan o' green,An' stands all i' a glow,- wi' a smile on her lipsan' a leet i' her een.To t' tips of her fingers shoo's wick.(4)Tha can see t' pulses beat i' her braa.Tha can feel her soft breath comin' quick,An' it thrills tha-tha duzn't knaw haa.When ye part,Them daffydaandillies shoo's kissed an' then gi'entha—they'll bloom i' thy heart!1. Pours. 2. Busy. 3 Way. 4. Alive.
A. C. WatsonWhen oft at neet I wanders heameTo cosy cot an' busy deame,My hardest day's wark seems but leet,When I can get back heame at neet,My wife an' bairns to sit besaade,Aroond my awn bit firesaade.What comfort there's i' steep(1) for me,A laatle prattler on my knee!What tales I have to listen tea!But just at fost there's sike to-deaAs niver was. Each laatle dotCan fain agree for t' fav'rite spot.Sike problems they can set for me'T wad puzzle waaser heeads mebbe.An' questions hawf a scoor they ask,To answer' em wad prove a task;For laatle thowts stray far awayTo things mysterious, oot o' t' way.An' then sike toffer(2) they torn oot,An' pratty lips begin to poot,If iverything's nut stowed awayTo cumulate frae day to day.Sike treasures they could niver spare,But gether mair an' mair an' mairIn ivery pocket. I've nea dootThey've things they think the wo'ld aboot.An' when their bed-taame's drawin' nigh,Wi' heavy heead an' sleepy eye,It's vary laatle din they mak,But slyly try a nap to tak.An' when on t' lats(3) they've gone aboon,I fills my pipe an' sattles do onTo have a comfortable smewk.An' then at t' news I has a lewk;Or hods a bit o' talk wi' t' wife,The praade an' comfort o' my life.Cawd winds may blaw, an' snaw-flakes flee,An' neets may be beath lang an' dree,Or it may rain an' rain agean,Sea lang as I've my day's wark dean,I wadn't swap my humble heameFor bigger hoose or finer neame.If all could as contented be,There'd be mair joy an' less mis'ry.1. In store. 2. Odds and ends. 3. Laths.
E. A. LodgePrivately printed by Mr. E. A. Lodge in a volume entitledOdds an' Ends (n. d.).When I were but a striplin'An' bare a scoor year owd,I thowt I'd gotten brains enewTo fill all t' yeds(1) i' t' fowd.I used to roor wi' laffin'At t' sharpness o' my wit,An' a joke I made one KersmissThrew my nuncle in a fit.I used to think my motherWere a hundred year behund;An' my father—well, my fatherNobbut fourteen aence to t' pund.An' I often turned it ovver,But I ne'er could fairly seeYaeiver(2) sich owd croniesCould hae bred a chap like me.An' whene'er they went to t' market,I put my fillin's in;Whol my father used to stop meWi' "Prithee, hold thy din."Does ta think we're nobbut childer,Wi' as little sense as thee?When thy advice is wanted,We'st axe thee, does ta see."But they gate it, wilta, shalta,An' I did my levil bestTo change their flee-blown notions,Whol their yeds were laid to t' west.This happened thirty year sin;Nae I've childer o' my own,At's gotten t' cheek to tell meAt I'm a bit flee-blown.1. Heads. 2. However.
From Tykes Abrooad (W. Nicholson, Wakefield, 1911).Walter Hampson.Tha'rt welcome, thrice welcome, Owd England;It maks my een sparkle wi' glee,An' does mi heart gooid to behold thee,For I know tha's a welcome for me.Let others recaant all thi failin's,Let traitors upbraid as they will,I know at thy virtues are many,An' my heart's beeatin' true to thee still.There's a gladness i' t' sky at bends ower thee,There's a sweetness i' t' green o' thy grass,There's a glory i' t' waves at embrace thee,An' thy beauty there's naan can surpass.Thy childer enrich iv'ry valley,An' add beauty to iv'ry glen,For tha's mothered a race o' fair women,An' true-hearted, practical men.There's one little spot up i' Yorkshire,It's net mich to crack on at t' best,But to me it's a kingdom most lovely,An' it holds t' warmest place i' my breast.Compared wi' that kingdom, all othersAre worthless as bubbles o' fooam,For one thing my rovin' has towt me,An' that is, there's no place like hooam.I know there'll be one theer to greet meAt's proved faithful through many dark days,An' little feet runnin' to meet me,An' een at(1) howd love i' their gaze.An' there's neighbours both hooamly an' kindly,An' mates at are wor'thy to trust,An' friends my adversity's tested,At proved to be generous an' just.An' net far away there's green valleys,An' greeat craggy, towerin' hills,An' breezes at mingle their sweetnessWi' t' music o' sparklin' rills;An' meadows all decked wi' wild-flaars,An' hedges wi' blossom all white,An' a blue sky wheer t' skylark is singin',Just to mak known his joy an' delight.Aye, England, Owd England! I love theeWi' a love at each day grows more strong;In my heart tha sinks deeper an' deeper,As year after year rolls along;An' spite o' thy faults an' thy follies,Whativer thy fortune may be,I' storm or i' sunshine, i' weal or i' woe,Tha'll allus be lovely to me.May thy sons an' thy dowters live happy,An' niver know t' woes o' distress;May thy friends be for iver increeasin',An' thy enemies each day grow less.May tha niver let selfish ambitionDishonour or tarnish thy swoord,But use it alooan agean despotsWhether reignin' at hooam or abrooad.1. That.
J. A. CarillFrom Woz'ls Humorous Sketches and Rhymes in the EastYorkshire Dialect (n. d.).Whin I gor hoired et Beacon Farm a year last Martinmas,I fund we'd gor a vory bonny soort o' kitchen lass;And so I tell'd her plooin' made me hungry—thot was whyI awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie.And efther thot I thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin' large,And so I ate it for her sake—theer wasn't onny charge;Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply whyShe awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.I wasn't mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin',She had no chance o' goin' oot for armin' it and walkin'.But thin I knawed I gor her love whin I could see t' pies;I knawed her thowts o' me were big by bigness o' their size.The pies and gell I thowt thot geed,(1) they hardlins could be beaten,She knawed I'd awlus thowts on her by way t' pies were eaten;Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply whyShe awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.Noo just thoo wait a bit and see; I'm only thod-lad(2) noo,I moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two;And thin thoo'll see, or I'm a cauf, I'll mak 'em ring choch bell,And carry off et Martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin' gell.And whin thoo's buyin' coats and beats(3) wi' wages thot ye take,It's I'll be buyin' boxes for t' laatle bits o' cake;And whin I've gar a missus ther'll be no more askin' whyShe awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie.1. Good. 2. Third lad on the farm. 3. Boots.
George H. CowlingI's gotten t' bliss o' moonten-tops to-neet,Thof I's i' bondage noo, an' blinnd an' deeaf.Brethren, I's stoun(1)! an' fand it varry sweet,Sea strike my neame off, if't be your beliefI's slidin' back.Last neet, as I were shoggin'(2) on up t' street,I acted t' thief.Ye think I's hardened. Ay! I see ye lewvk.I stell't,(3) it's true; bud, brethren, I'll repay.I'll pay back ten-foad iverything I tewk,An' folks may say whate'er they like to say.It were a kiss,An' t' lass has promised iv oar ingle-newkTo neame t' day.1. Stolen. 2. Jogging 3. Stole.
George H. CowlingThe parson, the squire an' the divilAre troubles at trouble this life,Bud each on em's dacent an' civilCompared wi' a natterin'(1) wife.A wife at mun argie an' natter,She maks a man's mortal life hell.An' that's t' gospel-truth o' t' matter,I knaws, 'cause I's got yan misel.1. Nagging.
George H. Cowling"O! What do ye wesh i' the beck, awd wench?Is it watter ye lack at heame?"It's nobbut a murderer's shrood, young man,A shrood for to cover his weam.(1)"O! what do ye cut i' the slack, awd hag?Is it fencin' ye lack for your beas'(2)?"It's nobbut a murderer's coffin, sir,A coffin to felt(3) his feace.""O! what do ye greaye(4) at the crossroads, witch?Is it roots ye lack for your swine?""It's nobbut a murderer's grave, fair sir,A grave for to bury him fine.""An' whea be-owes(5) coffin an' shrood, foul witch?An' wheas is the grave i' the grass?""This spell I hae woven for thee, dear hairt,Coom, kill me, an' bring it to pass."1. Belly. 2. Beasts, cattle.. 3. Hide.4. Dig 5. Owns,
This ya neet, this ya neet,Ivvery neet an' all;Fire an' fleet(2) an' can'le leet,An' Christ tak up thy saul.When thoo frae hence away art passed(3)Ivvery neet an' all;To Whinny-moor thoo cooms at last,An' Christ tak up thy saul.If ivver thoo gav owther hosen or shoon,Ivvery neet an' all;Clap thee doon an' put 'em on,An' Christ tak up thy saul.Bud if hosen or shoon thoo nivver gav nean,(4)Ivvery neet an' all;T' whinnies 'll prick thee sair to t' bean,(5)An' Christ tak up thy saul.Frae Whinny-moor when(6) thoo mayst pass,Ivvery neet an' all;To t' Brig o' Dreead thoo'll coom at last,An' Christ tak up thy saul.If ivver thoo gav o' thy siller an' gowd,Ivvery neet an' all;At t' Brig o' Dreead thoo'll finnd foothod,An' Christ tak up thy saul.Bud if siller an' gowd thoo nivver gav nean,Ivvery neet an' all;Thoo'll doan, doon tum'le towards Hell fleames,An' Christ tak up thy saul.Frae t' Brig o' Dreead when thoo mayst pass,Ivvery neet an' all;To t' fleames o' Hell thoo'll coom at last,An' Christ tak up thy saul.If ivver thoo gav owther bite or sup,Ivvery neet an' all;T' fleames 'll nivver catch thee up,An' Christ tak up thy saul.Bud if bite or sup thoo nivver gav nean,Ivvery neet an' all;T' fleames 'll bon(7) thee sair to t' bean,An' Christ tak up thy saul.1. The text of this version of the "Lyke-wake Dirge" follows, with slightvariations, that found in Mr. Richard Blakeborough's Wit, Character,Folklore, and Customs of the North Riding (p. 123), where the followingaccount is given: "I cannot say when or where the Lyke Walke dirge wassung for the last time in the North Riding, but I remember once talkingto an old chap who remembered it being sung over the corpse of a distantrelation of his, a native of Kildale. This would be about 1800, and hetold me that Lyke-wakes were of rare occurrence then, and only heard ofin out-of-the-way places. ... There are other versions of the song; theone here given is as it was dictated to me. There is another version inthe North Riding which seems to have been written according to the tenetsof Rome; at least I imagine so, as purgatory takes the place of hellishflames, as given above." In the Appendix to this volume will be foundthe other version with the introduction of purgatory to which Mr.Blakeborough refers. I have taken it from Sir Walter Scott's BorderMinstrelsy (ed. Henderson, vol. ii. pp. 170-2), but it also finds aplace in John Aubrey's Remains of Gentilisme and Judaisme (1686-7),preserved among the Lansdowne MSS. in the British Museum. Aubreyprefixes the following note to his version of the dirge: The beliefe inYorkeshire was amongst the vulgar (perhaps is in part still) that afterthe person's death the soule went over Whinny-moore, and till about1616-24 at the funerale a woman came (like a Praefica) and sang thefollowing song." Further information about this interesting dirge andits parallels in other literatures will be found in Henderson's editionof the Border Minstrelsy, p. 163) and in J. C. Atkinson's Glosary of theCleveland Dialect, p. 595.