Of the first importance in this anthology of traditional song are the "Cleveland Lyke-wake Dirge" and "A Dree Neet." The former has been well known to lovers of poetry since Sir Walter Scott included it in his Border Minstrelsy; the latter, I believe, was never published until the appearance of T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg in 1896. The tragic power and suggestiveness of these two poems is very remarkable. It is, I think, fairly certain that they stand in intimate association with one another and point back to a time when the prevailing creed of Yorkshire was Roman Catholicism. Both depict with deep solemnity the terrors of death and of the Judgment which lies beyond. Whinny Moor appears in either poem as the desolate moorland tract, beset with prickly whin-bushes and flinty stones, which the dead man must traverse on "shoonless feet" on his journey from life. And beyond this moor lies the still more mysterious "Brig o' Dreead," or "' Brig o' Deead," as "A Dree Neet" renders it. It would be tempting to conjecture the precise significance of this allusion, and to connect it with other primitive myths and legends of a similar character; but space fails us, and it may well be that the very vagueness of the allusion is of more haunting tragic power than precise knowledge. It is also interesting to notice the effective use which is made in "A Dree Neet" of all the superstitions which gather about the great pageant of death. The flight of the Gabriel ratchets, or Gabriel hounds, through the sky, the fluttering of bats at the casement and of moths at the candle flame, and the shroud of soot which falls from the chimney of the room where the dying man lies, are introduced with fine effect; while the curious reference to the folk that draw nigh from the other side of the grave has an Homeric ring about it, and recalls the great scene in the Odyssey where the ghosts of Elpenor, Teiresias, and other dead heroes gather about the trench that Odysseus has digged on the other side of the great stream of Oceanus, hard by the dank house of Hades.
It is unnecessary to speak at any length of the other songs, proverbial rhymes, and "nominies" which find a place among the traditional poems in this collection. The mumming-songs, the boisterous "Ridin' t' stang" verses, and all the snatches of folk-song which are, associated with the festive ritual of the circling year either carry their own explanation with them or have been elucidated by those who have written on the subject of Yorkshire customs and folklore. I heartily commend to the reader's notice the three songs entitled "The Bridal Bands," "The Bridal Garter," and "Nance and Tom," which we owe to Mr. Blakeborough, and which present to us in so delightful a manner the picture of the bride tying her garter of wheaten and oaten straws about her left leg and the bride-groom unloosing it after the wedding. It is hoped, too, that the reader may find much that is interesting in the singing-games, verses and the rhymes which throw light upon the vanishing customs, folklore, and faiths of the county. They serve to lift the veil which hides the past from the present, and to give us visions of a world which is fast passing out of sight and out of memory. It is a world where one may still faintly hear the horns of elfland blowing, and where Hob-trush Hob and little Nanny Button-cap wander on printless feet through the star-lit glades; where charms are still recited when the moon is new, and where on St. Agnes' Eve the milkmaid lets the twelve sage-leaves fall from her casement-window and, like Keats's Madeline, peers through "the honey'd middle of the night "for a glimpse of the Porphyro to whom she must pledge her troth.
1. Some years before Thoresby's letter was written, anotherYorkshireman, Francis Brokesby, rector of Rowley in the EastRiding, communicated with Ray about dialect words in use inhis district. See Ray's Collection of English Words, secondedition, pp. 170-73 (1691).2. It has been republished by the late Professor Skeat inthe English Dialect Society's volume, Nine Specimens ofEnglish Dialects.3. Two editions of this ballad-opera were published in 1736.The title of the first (? pirated) edition runs as follows:A Wonder; or, An Honest Yorkshire-man. A Ballad Opera; As itis Performed at the Theatres with Universal Applause. In thesecond edition the words, "A Wonder," disappear from thetitle.4. Edited by J. O. Halliwell in his Yorkshire Anthology,1851.5. The first edition of Ben Preston's poems appeared in 1860with the title, Poems and Songs in the Dialect of BradfordDale.6. A. Holroyd: A Collection of Yorkshire Ballads, ed. by C.F. Forshaw. (G. Bell, 1892.)7. The reader will find a reprint of the West Riding versionof The Peace Egg, with an attempt by the editor of thisanthology to throw light upon its inner meaning, in thesecond volume of Essays and Studies of the EnglishAssociation (Clarendon Press, 1911).
A Yorkshire Dialogue between an awd Wife a Lass and a butcher. (1673)Anonymous
Printed at York as a broadside by Stephen Bulkley in 1673. The original broadside is lost, but a manuscript transcript of it was purchased by the late Professor Skeat at the sale of Sir F. Madden's books and papers, and published by him in volume xxxii. of the Dialect Society's Transactions, 1896.
AWD WIFE. Pretha now, lass, gang into t' hurn(1)An' fetch me heame a skeel o' burn(2);Na, pretha, barn, mak heaste an' gang,I's mar my deagh,(3) thou stays sae lang.LASS. Why, Gom,(4) I's gea, bud, for my pains,You's gie me a frundel(5) o' your grains.AWD WIFE. My grains, my barn! Marry! not I;My draugh's(6) for t' gilts an' galts(7) i' t' sty.Than, pretha, look i t' garth and seeWhat owsen(8) i' the stand-hecks(9) be.LASS. Blukrins! they'll put,(10) I dare not gangOute'en(11) you'll len' me t' great leap-stang.(12)AWD WIFE. Tak t' frugan,(13) or t' awd maulin-shaft,(14)Coom tite(15) agean an' be not daft.LASS. Gom, t' great bull-segg(16) he's brokken lowse,An' he, he's hiked(17) your broad-horned owse;An' t' owse is fall'n into t' swine-trough,I think he's brokken his cameril-hough.(18)AWD WIFE. Whaw! Whaw! lass, mak heaste to t' smedy,(19)He's noo dead, for he rowts(20) already;He's boun; oh! how it bauks an' stangs!(21)His lisk(22) e'en bumps an' bobs wi' pangs.His weazen-pipe's(23) as dry as dust,His dew-lap's swelled, he cannot hoast.(24)He beals(25); tak t' barghams(26) off o' t' beamsAn' fetch some breckons(27) frae the clames.(28)Frae t' banks go fetch me a weam-tow(29)My nowt's(30) e'en wrecken'd, he'll not dow.(31)E'en wellanerin!(32) for my nowt,For syke a musan(33) ne'er was wrowt.Put t' wyes(34) amell(35) yon stirks an' steersI' t' owmer,(36) an' sneck the lear-deers.(37)See if Goff Hyldroth be gain-hand (38)Thou helterful,(39) how dares ta stand!LASS. He'll coom belive,(40) or aibles titter,(41)For when he hard i' what a twitter(42)Your poor owse lay, he took his flailAn' hang'd 't by t' swipple(43) on a nail;An' teuk a mell(44) fra t' top o' t' wharns(45)An' sware he'd ding your owse i' t' harns.(46)He stack his shak-fork up i' t' esins(47)An' teuk his jerkin off o' t' gresins.(48)Then teuk his mittens, reached his bill,An' off o' t' yune-head(49) teuk a swill(50)To kep t' owse blude in. Leuk, he's coom.AWD WIFE. Than reach a thivel(51) or a strum(52)To stir his blude; stand not to tauk.Hing t' reckans(53) up o' t' rannel-bauk.(54)God ye good-morn, Goff; I's e'en fainYou'll put my owse out o' his pain.BUTCHER. Hough-band him, tak thir(55) weevils hine(56)F'rae t' rape's end; this is not a swineWe kill, where ilkane hauds a fooit.I's ready now, ilkane leuk to it.Then "Beef!" i' God's name I now cry.Stretch out his legs an' let him lieTill I coom stick him. Where's my swill?(57)Coom hither, lass; haud, haud, haud still.LASS. What mun I do wi' t' blude? BUTCHER. Thou fool,Teem(58) 't down i' t' garth, i' t' midden-pool.Good beef, by t' mass! an' when 'tis hungI's roll it down wi' tooth an' tongue,An' gobble 't down e'en till I worry.An' whan neist mell(59) we mak a lurry(60)A piece o' this frae t' kimlin(61) browtBy t' Rood! 't will be as good as owt.AWD WIFE. Maut-hearted(62) fool, I e'en could greet(63)To see my owse dead at my feet.I thank you, Goff; I's wipe my eenAn', please, you too. BUTCHER. Why, Gom Green?1. Corner. 2. Bucket of water. 3. Dough. 4. Grand-mother.5. Handful. 6. Draff. 7. Sows and boars. 8. Oxen. 9. Stalls.10. Gore. 11. Unless. 12. Pole. 13. Oven-fork.14. Handle of oven-mop. 15. Quickly. 16. Bullock. 17. Gored.18. Bend of hind.leg. 19. Smithy. 20. Snorts. 21. Swells and stings.22. Flank. 23. Windpipe. 24. Cough. 25. Bellows. 26. Horse-collars.27. Bracken. 28. Heaps. 29. Belly-band. 30. Ox. 31. Recover.32. Alas! 33. Wonder. 34. Heifers. 35. Among. 36. Shade.37. Barn-doors. 38. Near at hand. 39. Halter-full. 40. Soon.41. Perhaps sooner. 42. Perilous state. 43. Flap-end. 44. Mallet.45. Hand-mill. 46. Brains. 47. Eaves. 48. Stairs. 49. Oven-top.50. Bucket. 51. Porridge-stick. 52. Stick.53. Iron chains for pot-hooks. 54. Chimney cross-beam. 55. Those.56. Away. 57. Bucket. 58. Pour. 59. Next harvest-supper.60. Merry feast. 61. Tub. 62. Maggot-hearted. 63. Weep.
Henry Carey (Died 1748)I is i' truth a coontry youth,Nean used to Lunnon fashions;Yet vartue guides, an' still presidesOwer all my steps an' passions.Nea coortly leer, bud all sincere,Nea bribe shall iver blinnd me ;If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike,A rogue thoo'll niver finnd me.Thof envy's tongue, so slimly hung,Would lee aboot oor coonty,Nea men o' t' earth boast greater worth,Or mair extend their boonty.Oor northern breeze wi' us agrees,An' does for wark weel fit us ;I' public cares, an' love affairs,Wi' honour We acquit us.Sea great a maand(1) is ne'er confaand(2)'Tiv onny shire or nation,They gie un meast praise whea weel displaysA larned eddication;Whaal rancour rolls i' laatle souls,By shallow views dissarnin',They're nobbut wise at awlus prizeGood manners, sense, an' larnin'.1. Mind 2. Confined
AnonymousThis was written at the time of the Enclosure Actswhich robbed the peasent farmer of his rights to use Commons.Alas! will Roger e'er his sleep forgo,Afore larks sing, or early cocks 'gin Crow,As I've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done,To help thee milking, e'er day wark begun?And when thy well-stripp'd kye(1) would yield no more,Still on my head the reeking kit(2) I bore.And, Oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome talkWe've held together, ganging down the balk,Maund'ring(3) at time which would na for us stay,But now, I ween, maes(4) no such hast away.Yet, O! return eftsoon and ease my woe,And to some distant parish let us go,And there again them leetsome days restore,Where, unassail'd by meety(5) folk in power,Our cattle yet may feed, tho' Snaith Marsh be no more.But wae is me! I wot I fand(6) am grown,Forgetting Susan is already gone,And Roger aims e'er Lady Day to wed;The banns last Sunday in the church were bid.But let me, let me first i' t' churchyard lig,For soon I there must gang, my grief's so big.All others in their loss some comfort find;Though Ned's like me reduc'd, yet Jenny's kind,And though his fleece no more our parson taks,And roast goose, dainty food, our table lacks,Yet he, for tithes ill paid, gets better land,While I am ev'ry o' t' losing hand.My adlings wared,(7) and yet my rent to pay,My geese, like Susan's faith, flown far away;My cattle, like their master, lank and poor,My heart with hopeless love to pieces tore,And all these sorrows came syne(8) Snaith Marsh was no more1. Well-milked kine (cattle) 2. Pail 3. Finding Fault4. Makes 5. Mighty 6. Fond, Foolish 7. Earnings spent8. Since
AnonymousWhen at hame wi' dad,We niver had nae fun, sir,Which meade me sae mad,I swore away I'd run, sir.I pack'd up clease(1) sae smart,Ribbed stockings, weastcoats pretty;Wi' money an' leet heart,Tripp'd off to Lunnon city,Fal de ral de ra.When I did git thereI geap'd about quite silly,At all the shows to stareI' a spot call'd Piccadilly.Lord! sike charmin' seights:Bods(2) i' cages thrive, sir',Coaches, fiddles, feights,An' crocodiles alive, sir,Fal de ral de ra.Then I did gan to seeThe gentry in Hyde Park, sir,When a lass push'd readely(1) by,To whom I did remark, sir:"Tho' your feace be e'en sae fair,I've seen a bear mair civil."Then, the laatle clease they wear!God! Lunnon is the divil,Fal de ral de ra.To t' play-house then I goes,Whar I seed merry feaces,An' i' the lower rowsWere sarvants keepin' pleaces.The players I saw sean,They managed things quite funny;By gock! they'd honey-meanAfore they'd matrimony.Fal de ral de ra.Now havin' seen all I couldAn' pass'd away my time, sir,If you think fit an' good,I'll e'en give up my rhyme, sir.An', sud my ditty please,The poppies in this gardenTo me would be heart's-ease;If not, I axe your pardon.Fal de ral de ra.1. Clothes 2. Birds 3. Rudely
AnonymousFrom A Garland of New Songs, published by W. Appleton,Darlington, 1811.By t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook,I was sent betimes to school;I went wi' the stream, as I studied my book,An' was thought to be no small fool.I never yet bought a pig in a poke,For, to give awd Nick his due,Tho' oft I've dealt wi' Yorkshire folk,Yet I was Yorkshire too.I was pretty well lik'd by each village maid,At races, wake or fair,For my father had addled a vast(1) in trade,And I were his son and heir.And seeing that I didn't want for brass,Poor girls came first to woo,But tho' I delight in a Yorkshrre lass,Yet I was Yorkshire too!To Lunnon by father I was sent,Genteeler manners to see;But fashion's so dear, I came back as I went,And so they made nothing o' meMy kind relations would soon have found outWhat was best wi' my money to do:Says I, "My dear cousins, I thank ye for nowt,But I'm not to be cozen'd by you!For I'm Yorkshire too."1. Earned a lot.
AnonymousWhen I were at home wi' my fayther an' mother,I niver had na fun;They kept me goin' frae morn to neet,so I thowt frae them I'd run.Leeds Fair were coomin' on,an' I thowt I'd have a spree,So I put on my Sunday cooatan' went right merrily.First thing I saw were t' factory,I niver seed one afore;There were threads an' tapes, an' tapes an' silks,to sell by monny a score.Owd Ned turn'd iv'ry wheel,an' iv'ry wheel a strap;"Begor!" says I to t' maister-man,"Owd Ned's a rare strong chap."Next I went to Leeds Owd Church—I were niver i' one i' my days,An' I were maistly ashamed o' misel,for I didn't knaw their ways;There were thirty or forty folk,i' tubs an' boxes sat,When up cooms a saucy owd fellow.Says he, "Noo, lad, tak off thy hat."Then in there cooms a great Lord Mayor,an' over his shooders a club,An' he gat into a white sack-poke,(1)an gat into t' topmost tub.An' then there cooms anither chap,I thinks they call'd him Ned,An' he gat into t' bottommost tub,an' mock'd all t' other chap said.So they began to preach an' pray,they prayed for George, oor King;When up jumps t' chap i' t' bottommost tub.Says he, "Good folks, let's sing."I thowt some sang varra weel,while others did grunt an' groan,Ivery man sang what he wad,so I sang " Darby an' Joan."(2)When preachin' an' prayin' were over,an' folks were gangin' away,I went to t' chap i' t' topmost tub.Says I, "Lad, what's to pay?""Why, nowt," says he, "my lad."Begor! I were right fain,So I click'd hod(3) o' my gret club stickan' went whistlin' oot again.1. Corn-sack 2. Another reading is "Bobbing Joan."3. Took hold
Thomas Browne (1771-1798)Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,Y' are all ower slow by hauf for me,That wait impatient for the mornin';To-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair,I'll try to shine the fooremost there,Misen in finest claes adornin',To grace the day.I'll put my best white stockings on,An' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon,My clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton;Aboot my neck a muslin shawl,A new silk handkerchee ower all,Wi' sike a careless air I'll put on,I'll shine this day.My partner Ned, I know, thinks he,He'll mak hiss en secure o' me,He's often said he'd treat me rarely;But I's think o' some other fun,I'll aim for some rich farmer's son,And cheat oor simple Neddy fairly,Sae sly this day.Why mud not I succeed as weel,An' get a man full oot genteel,As awd John Darby's daughter Nelly?I think misen as good as she,She can't mak cheese or spin like me,That's mair 'an(1) beauty, let me tell ye,On onny day.Then hey! for sports and puppy shows,An' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows,An' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin';An' thousand other pratty seets,An' lasses traul'd(2) alang the streets,Wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin'To drink this day.Let's leuk at t' winder, I can see 't,It seems as tho' 't was growin' leet,The cloods wi' early rays adornin';Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,Y' are all ower slow be hauf for me,At(3) wait impatient for the mornin'O' sike a day.1. Than 2. Trailed 3. That
Thomas Browne (1771—1798)When I was a wee laatle totterin' bairn,An' had nobbud just gitten short frocks,When to gang I at first was beginnin' to lairn,On my brow I gat monny hard knocks.For sae waik, an' sae silly an' helpless was II was always a tumblin' doon then,While my mother would twattle me(1) gently an' cry,"Honey Jenny, tak care o' thisen."When I grew bigger, an' got to be strang,At I cannily ran all aboutBy misen, whor I liked, then I always mud gangBithout(2) bein' tell'd about ought;When, however, I com to be sixteen year awd,An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men,My mother would call o' me in an' would scaud,An' cry—" Huzzy, tak care o' thisen."I've a sweetheart cooms noo upo' Setterday nights,An' he swears at he'll mak me his wife;My mam grows sae stingy, she scauds an' she flytes,(3)An' twitters(4) me oot o' my life.Bud she may leuk sour, an' consait hersen wise,An' preach agean likin' young men;Sen I's grown a woman her clack(5) I'll despise,An' I's—marry!—tak care o' misen.1. Prattle to me. 2. Without. 3. Argues,4. Worries. 5. Talk
Thomas Browne (1771—1798)Impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit?—Virgil.A wanton wether had disdain'd the boundsThat kept him close confin'd to Willy's grounds;Broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray,He knew not whither on the public way.As Willy strives, with all attentive care,The fence to strengthen and the gap repair,His neighbour, Roger, from the fair return'd,Appears in sight in riding-graith adorn'd;Whom, soon as Willy, fast approaching, spies,Thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries.WILLYHow dea ye, Roger? Hae ye been at t' fair?How gangs things? Made ye onny bargains there?ROGERI knaw not, Willy, things deant look ower weel,Coorn sattles fast, thof beas'(1) 'll fetch a deal.To sell t' awd intak(2) barley I desaagn'd,Bud couldn't git a price to suit my maand.What wi' rack-rents an' sike a want a' trade,I knawn't how yan's to git yan's landloords paid.Mair-ower(3) all that, they say, i' spring o' t' yearFranch is intarmin'd on 't to 'tack us here.WILLYYea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for?Depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4)ROGERTrue, Willy, nobbud Englishmen 'll standBy yan another o' their awwn good land.They'll niver suffer—I's be bun' to say The Franch to tak a single sheep away.Fightin' for heame, upo' their awn fair field,All power i' France could niver mak 'em yield.WILLYWhaw! seer(5) you cannot think, when put to t' pinch,At onny Englishmen 'll iver flinch!If Franch dea coom here, Roger, I'll be hang'dAn' they deant git theirsens reet soondly bang'd.I can't bud think—thof I may be mistean Not monny on 'em 'll git back agean.ROGERI think nut, Willy, bud some fowk 'll say,Oor English fleet let t' Franch ships git away,When they were laid, thou knaws, i' Bantry Bay;At(6) they could niver all have gien 'em t' slip,Bud t' English wanted nut to tak a ship.WILLYEh! that's all lees!ROGERI dinnot say it's true,It's all unknawn to sike as me an' you.How do we knaw when fleets do reet or wrang?I whope it's all on't fause, bud sea talks gang.Howsiver this I knaw, at when they please,Oor sailors always beat 'em upo' t' seas.An' if they nobbut sharply look aboot,T'hey needn't let a single ship coom oat.At least they'll drub 'em weel, I dinnot fear,An' keep 'em fairly off frae landin' here.WILLYI whope sea, Roger, bud, an' if they deaCoom owerr, I then shall sharpen my awd lea.(7)What thof(8) I can bud of a laatle boast,You knaw van wadn't hae that laatle lost.I's send our Mally an' all t' bairns away,An' I misen 'll by the yamstead(9) stay.I'll fight, if need; an' if I fall, why, thenI's suffer all the warst mishap misen.Was I bud seer my wife an' bairns were seafe,I then sud be to dee content eneaf.ROGERReet, Willy, mon, what an' they put us tea 'tI will misen put forrad my best feat.(10)What thof I's awd, I's nut sae easily scar'd;On his awn midden an awd cock fights hard.They say a Franchman's torn'd a different man,A braver, better soldier, ten to yan.Bud let the Franch be torn'd to what they will,They'll finnd at Englishmen are English still.O' their awn grund they'll nowther flinch nor flee,They'll owther conquer, or they'll bravely dee.1. Beasts, cattle. 2 Enclosure. 3. Besides.4. Stir. 5. Surely. 6. That.7. Scythe. 8. Though. 9. Homestead. 10 Foot.
David LewisYa summer day when I were mowin',When flooers of monny soorts were growin',Which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin',As I advance,A frog I cut widout my knowin'—A sad mischance.Poor luckless frog, why com thoo here?Thoo sure were destitute o' fear;Some other way could thoo nut steerTo shun the grass?For noo that life, which all hod dear,Is gean, alas!Hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soondWith which the mowers strip the groond,Then fled away wi' nimble boond,Thoo'd kept thy state:But I, unknawin', gav a wound,Which browt thy fate.Sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn,Wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn,And golden rings round baith ees drawn,All gay an' blithe,Thoo lowpt(1) the fields like onny fawn,But met the scythe.Frae dikes where winter watters steead(2)Thoo com unto the dewy mead,Regardless of the cattle's treead,Wi' pantin' breeath,For to restore thy freezin' bleead,But met wi' deeath.A Frenchman early seekin' prog,(3)Will oftentimes ransack the bog,To finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog,To give relief;But I prefer a leg of hog,Or roond o' beef.But liker far to the poor frog,I's wanderin' through the world for prog,Where deeath gies monny a yan a jog,An' cuts them doon;An' though I think misen incog,That way I's boun.Time whets his scythe and shakes his glass,And though I know all flesh be grass,Like monny mair I play the ass,Don't seem to know;But here wad sometime langer pass,Befoor I go.Ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers,Of cottage mean, or gilded booers,Possessed of attractive pooers,Ye all mun gangLike frogs in meadows fed by shooers,Ere owt be lang.Though we to stately plants be grown,He easily can mow us doon;It may be late, or may be soon,His scythe we feel;Or is it fittin' to be known?Therefore fareweel.1. Leaped. 2. Stood. 3. Food.
Abel BywaterCoom all you cutlin' heroes, where'ersome'er you be,All you what works at flat-backs,(1) coom listen unto me;A basketful for a shillin',To mak 'em we are willin',Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin',Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin'.A baskitful o' flat-backs, I'm sure we'll mak, or more,To ger(2) reight into t' gallery, wheer we can rant an' roar,Throw flat-backs, stones an' sticks,Red herrin's, bones an' bricks,If they don't play "Nancy's fancy," or onny tune we fix,We'll do the best at e'er we can to break some o' their necks.Hey! Jont, lad, where art ta waddlin' to?Does ta work at flat-backs yit, as tha's been used to do?Ha! coom, an' tha' s go wi' me,An' a sample I will gie thee,It's one at I've just forged upon Geoffry's bran-new stiddy.(3)Look at it well, it does excel all t' flat-backs i' aar smithy.Let's send for a pitcher o' ale, lad, for I'm gerrin' varry droy,I'm ommost chok'd wi' smithy sleck,(4) the wind it is so hoigh.Gie Rafe an' Jer a drop,They sen(5) they cannot stop,They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop,They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop.Here's Steem at lives at Heeley, he'll soon be here, I knaw,He's larnt a new maccaroni step, the best you iver saw;He has it so complete,He troies up ivery street,An' ommost breaks all t' pavors(6) wi' swattin'(7) daan his feet.An' Anak troies to beat him, wheniver they doon(8) meet.We'll raise a tail by Sunda, Steem; I knaw who's one to sell,We'll tee a hammer heead at t' end to mak it balance well.It's a reight new Lunnon tail,We'll wear it kale for kale,(9)Aar Anak browt it wi' him, that neet he coom by t' mail.We'll drink success unto it—hey! Tout, lad, teem(10) aat t' ale.1 Knives. 2 Get. 3. Anvil. 4. Dust. 5. Say. 6. Paving Stones.7. Hammering. 8. Do. 9. Turn and about. 10. Pour.
AnonymousScoolin' maid o' iron broo,Thy sarvant will address thee noo,For thoo invites the freedomBy drivin' off my former friends,To leak to their awn private ends,Just when I chanc'd to need 'em.I've had thy company ower lang,Ill-lookin' wean,(1) thoo must be wrang,Thus to cut short my jerkin.I ken thee weel, I knaw thy ways,Thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes,An' foorc'd me to hard workin'.To gain o' thee a yal(2) day's marchI straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch.For all I still straave faster,Thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop,By some slain corn, or failin' crop,Or ivery foul disaster.If I my maand may freely speak,I really dunnot like thy leak,Whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on;Thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd,A fiend afoore, a freight behinnd,An' foul as Mother Shipton.Folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth,Thoo has been wi' me frae my youth,An' gien me monny a thumper;Bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight,Fast fallin' frae a fearful height,A doonreet Milton plumper.Sud plenty frae her copious horn,Teem(1) oot to me good crops o' corn,An' prosper weel my cattle,An' send a single thoosand pund,'T wad bring all things completely roond,An' I wad gie thee battle.Noo, Poverty, ya thing I beg,Like a poor man withoot a leg,Sea, prethee, don't deceive me;I knaw it's i' thy power to grantThe laatle favour at I want At thoo wad gang an' leave me.1. Child. 2. Whole.
AnonymousI'll tell ye aboot the Collingham ghost,An' a rare awd ghost was he;For he could laugh, an' he could talk,An' run, an' jump, an' flee.He went aboot hither an' thither,An' freeten'd some out o' their wits,He freeten'd the parson as weel as the clerk,An' lots beside them into fits.The poor awd man wha teak the tollAt Collingham bar for monny a year,He dursn't coom out to oppen his yat(2)For fear the ghost sud be near.He teak to his bed an' there he laid,For monny a neet an' day;His yat was awlus wide oppen thrown,An' nean iver stopp'd to pay.Awd Jerry wha kept the public hoose,An' sell'd good yal to all,Curs'd the ghost wi' hearty good will,For neabody stopp'd to call.It made sike a noise all roond aboot,That folks com far to see;Some said it was a dreadful thing,An' sum said 't was a lee.Gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns,Thinkin' 't was some comical beast;An' they wad eyther kill him or catch him,Or drive him awa at least.Sea into Lady wood right they wentYa beautiful meenleet neet;A lot o' great men an' a lot o' rough dogs,Enew(3) a poor ghost to eat.They waited lang, the ghost didn't come,They began to laugh an' rail,"If he coom oat of his den," says yan,"We'll clap a bit o' saut of his tail.""Nay, he knows better than turn oot,When we are here to watch him,He'd git a bullet through his lug,Or Mungo there wad catch him."When close to their heads wi' a terrible clatterThe ghost went whirrin' up,An' owerr the woods he laughed an' shouted,"Bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!"The gamkeepers all tummled doon,Their hair thrast off their hat,They gaped an' grean'd(4) an' roll'd aboot,An' their hearts went pit-a-pat.Their feaces were white as onny clout,An' they said niver a word,T'hey couldn't tell what the ghost was like,Whether 'twas a beast or a bird.They stay'd nea langer i' t' wood that neet,Poor men were niver dafter,They ran awa hame as fast as they could,An' their dogs ran yelping after.The parson then, a larned man,Said he wad conjure the ghost;He was sure it was nea wandrin' beast,But a spirit that was lost.All languages this parson knewThat onny man can chat in,The Ebrew, Greek, an' Irish too,As weel as Dutch an' Latin.O! he could talk an' read an' preach,Few men knew mair or better,An' nearly all the bukes he readWere printed in black letter.He read a neet, he read a day,fo mak him fit for his wark,An' when he thowt he was quite up,He sent for the awd clerk.The clerk was quickly by his side,He took but little fettlin',An' awa they went wi' right good willTo gie the ghost a settlin'.Aye off they set wi' all their might,Nor stopp'd at thin or thick,The parson wi' his sark(5) an' buke,The clerk wi' a thick stick.At last by t' side o' t' bank they stopp'd,Where Wharfe runs murmurin' clear,A beautiful river breet an' fine,As onny in wide Yorkshire.The parson then began to read,An' read full loud an' lang,The rabbits they ran in an' oot,An' wonder'd what was wrang.The ghost was listnin' in a hole,An' oat he bang'd at last,The fluttrin' o' his mighty wings,Was like a whirlwind blast.He laughed 'an shooted as he flew,Until the wild woods rang;His who-who-whoop was niver heardSea load an' clear an' strang.The parson he fell backwards owerInto a bush o' whins,An' lost his buke, an' rave(6) his sark,(7)An' prick'd his hands an' shins.The clerk he tried to run awa,But tumml'd ower his stick,An' there he made a nasty smellWhile he did yell an' fick.(8)An' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'dThat here I darn't tell,For if I did, folks wad declareI was as ill as hissel.For eighteen months an' mair he stay'd,An' just did as he thowt ;For lord nor duke, parson nor clerk,He fear'd, nor cared nowt.Efter that time he went awa,Just when it pleas'd hissel;But what he was, or whar he com fra,Nea mortal man can tell.1. Pour. 2. Gate. 3. Enough. 4. Groaned.5. Surplice. 6. Tore. 7. Surplice. 8. Kick.
The Yorkshire Horse DealersAnonymousBain(1) to Clapham town-end lived an owd Yorkshire tike,Who i' dealing i' horseflesh had ne'er met his like;'T were his pride that i' all the hard bargains he'd hit,He'd bit a girt monny, but niver bin bit.This owd Tommy Towers (by that name he were known)Had an owd carrion tit(2) that were sheer skin an' bone;To have killed him for t' curs wad have bin quite as well,But 't were Tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel!Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,Thowt to diddle owd Tommy wad be a girt treat;He'd a horse, too, 't were war(3) than owd Tommy's, ye see,For t' neet afore that he'd thowt proper to dee !Thinks Abey, t' owd codger 'll niver smoke t' trick,I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,(4)An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen to trap,'T will be a fine feather i' Abraham cap!So to Tommy he goes, an' the question he pops:"Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?What wilt gie me to boot? for mine's t' better horse still?""Nowt," says Tommy, "I'll swop even hands, an' ye will!"Abey preached a lang time about summat to boot,Insistin' that his were the liveliest brute;But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,Till Abey shook hands, an' said, Well, Tommy I done!"O! Tommy," said Abey, "I's sorry for thee,I thowt thou'd hae hadden mair white i' thy ee;Good luck's wi' thy bargain, for my horse is deead.""Hey!" says Tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an' it's fleead(5)!"So Tommy got t' better o' t' bargain a vast,An' cam' off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last;For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mich to choose,Yet Tommy were richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.1 Near. 2 Nag. 3 Worse. 4. Quick, living 5. Flayed.