An' gi'e us howd thi hand!
For words like thoase, throo sich as thee,
What mortal could withstand!
It isn't mich o'th' world aw know,
But aw con truly say,
A faithful heart's too rich to throw
Withaat a thowt away.
So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan,
Aw'll tew for thine and thee,
An' seek for comfort when cast daan,
I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e."
Some poets sing o' gipsy queens,
An' some o' ladies fine;
Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes,
A humbler muse is mine:
Jewels, an' gold, an' silken frills,
Are things too heigh for me,
But woll mi harp wi' vigour thrills,
Aw'll strike a chord for thee.
Poor lassie wan,
Do th' best tha can,
Although thi fate be hard;
A time ther'll be
When sich as thee
Shall have yor full reward.
At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed,
An' off tha goes to wark;
An' gropes thi way to mill or shed,
Six months o'th' year i'th' dark.
Tha gets but little for thi pains,
But that's noa fault o' thine;
Thi maister reckons up his gains,
An' ligs i' bed till nine.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
He's little childer ov his own
'At's quite as old as thee;
They ride i' cushioned carriages
'At's beautiful to see;
They'd fear to spoil ther little hand,
To touch thy greasy brat:
It's wark like thine 'as maks 'em grand
They niver think o' that.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
I' summer time they romp an' play
Where flowers grow wild and sweet;
Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay,
They thrive throo morn to neet.
But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has;
An' oft aw've known thee sick;
But tha mun work, poor little lass,
For hauf-a-craan a wick.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
Aw envy net fowks' better lot—
Aw should'nt like to swap.
Aw'm quite contented wi'mi cot;
Aw'm but a warkin chap.
But if aw had a lot o' brass
Aw'd think o' them 'at's poor;
Aw'd have yo' childer workin' less,
An' mak yor wages moor.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
"There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain."
Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear,
I' that sweet home ov love;
An' those 'at scorn thi sufferins here
May envy thee above.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
Aw heeard a funny tale last neet—
Aw could'nt howd fro' laffin—
'Twor at th' Bull's Heead we chonced to meet,
An' spent an haar i' chaffin.
Some sang a song, some cracked a joak,
An' all seem'd full o' larkin;
An' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook,
An' ivery e'e'd a spark in.
Long Joa 'at comes thro th' Jumples cluff,
Wor gettin rayther mazy;
An' Warkus Ned had supped enuff
To turn they're Betty crazy;—
An Bob at lives at th' Bogeggs farm,
Wi' Nan throo th' Buttress Bottom,
Wor treating her to summat wanm,
(It's just his way,—"odd drot em!")
An' Jack o'th' Slade wor theear as weel,
An' Joa o' Abe's throo Waerley;
An' Lijah off o'th' Lavver Hill,
Wor passing th' ale raand rarely.—
Throo raand and square they seem'd to meet,
To hear or tell a stoory;
But th' gem o' all aw heard last neet
Wor one bi Dooad o'th' gloory.
He bet his booits 'at it wor true,
An' all seem'd to believe him;
Tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue—
But 't wodn't ha done to grieve him
His uncle lived i' Pudsey taan,
An' practised local praichin;
An' if he 're lucky, he wor baan
To start a schooil for taichin.
But he wor takken varry ill;
He felt his time wor comin:
(They say he brought it on hissel
Wi' studdyin his summin.)
He call'd his wife an' neighbors in
To hear his deein sarmon,
An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin
Ther lot ud be a warm en.
Then turin raand unto his wife,
Said—"Mal, tha knows, owd craytur,
If awd been bless'd wi' longer life,
Aw might ha' left things straighter.
Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence—
Aw lent it him last lovefeast."
Says Mal—"He has'nt lost his sense—
Thank God for that at least!"
"An Ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows,
We owe him one paand ten.".—
"Just hark!" says Mally, "there he goas!
He's ramellin agean!
Dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk!
Yo see, poor thing, he's ravin!
It cuts me up to hear sich talk—
He spent his life i' savin!
"An, Mally, lass," he said agean,
"Tak heed o' my direction:
Th' schooil owes us hauf a craan—aw mean
My share o'th' last collection.—
Tha'll see to that, an have what's fair
When my poor life is past."—
Says Mally, "listen, aw declare,
He's sensible to th' last."
He shut his een an' sank to rest—
Deeath seldom claimed a better:
They put him by,—but what wor th' best,
He sent 'em back a letter,
To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on;
An' ha he gate to enter;
An' gave 'em rules to act upon
If ever they should ventur.
Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand:
Says he, "What do you want, sir?
If to goa in—yo understand
Unknown to me yo can't sir.—
Pray what's your name? where are yo throo?
Just make your business clear."
Says he, "They call me Parson Drew,
Aw've come throo Pudsey here."
"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say?
Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir;
Aw've kept thease doors too long a day,
Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir."
Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie,
For th' sake o' all ther's in it:
If yo've a map o' England by,
Aw'll show yo in a minit."
Soa Peter gate a time-table—
They gloored o'er th' map together:
Drew did all at he wor able,
But could'nt find a stiver.
At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall,
An thear stands Braforth mission:
It's just between them two—that's all:
Your map's an old edition.
But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan,
An' if yo've niver known it,
Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan,
Tho mony be 'at scorn it."
He oppen'd th' gate,—says he, "It's time
Some body coom—aw'll trust thee.
Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine—
Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."
Nay surelee tha's made a mistak;
Tha'rt aght o' thi element here;
Tha may weel goa an' peark up oth' thack,
Thi bonny wings shakin wi fear.
Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms
Saand queer sooart o' music to thee;
An' tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes
O' miln-grease,—what th' quality be.
Maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us,
An' thinks we're a low offald set
But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does,
For ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet.
Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen,
An' as humble as humble could be;
An' tho we nah are like tha wor then,
We may yet be as nobby as thee.
Tha'd to see thi own livin when young,
An' when tha grew up tha'd to spin;
An' if labor like that worn't wrong,
Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'
But tha longs to be off aw con tell;
For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content:
Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window—farewell!
Off tha goas, bonny fly!—An' it went.
A gradely chap wor uncle Ben
As iver lived ith' fowd:
He made a fortun for hissen,
An' lived on't when he'r owd.
His yed wor like a snow drift,
An' his face wor red an' breet,
An' his heart wor like a feather,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.
He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas
He'd worn sin aw wor bred;
An' th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas,
An' th' same hat for his yed;
His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing
Throo braik o' day till neet;
His conscience niver felt a sting,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.
He wod'nt swap his humble state
Wi' th' grandest fowk i' th' land;
He niver wanted silver plate,
Nor owt 'at's rich and grand;
He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk
Drawn raand him ov a neet,
But he slept noa war for th' want o' that,
For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.
Owd fowk called him "awr Benny,"
Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"—
An' th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad,"
Or what best pleased thersen.
A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face
When he heeard ther patterin feet,
For he loved to laik wi' th' little bairns
An' he did the thing 'at's reet.
He niver turned poor fowk away
Uncared for throo his door;
He ne'er forgate ther wor a day
When he hissen wor poor;
An' mony a face has turned to Heaven,
All glistenin wi' weet,
An' prayed for blessins on owd Ben,
For he did th' thing 'at's reet.
He knew his lease wor ommost spent,
He'd sooin be called away;
Yet he wor happy an' content,
An' waited th' comin day;
But one dark neet he shut his e'en,
An' slept soa calm an' sweet,
when mornin coom, th' world held one less,
'At did the thing 'at's reet.
Says Dick, "ther's a' notion sprung up i' mi yed,
For th' furst time i' th' whole coorse o' mi life,
An' aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed,
If aw knew who to get for a wife.
Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass,
For aw've nawther to booast on misel;
What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin' lass,
An' ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.
To be single is all weel enuf nah an' then,
But it's awk'ard when th' weshin' day comes;
For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men;
They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.
An' awm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done,