An how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen,For we prized it moor,becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish;At last her call came, an shoo luked sich a luk at us then,Which aw ne'er shall forget,tho' mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.
A few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten,Mi friends began askin my wife,if shoo felt hersen hearty an strong?An aw nivver saw at her face wor beginnin to whiten,Till shoo grew like a shadow, an aw could'nt even guess wrong.
Then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxtonwor shovin in th' gravel,An he sed, "this last maks five,an aw think ther's just room for another,"An aw went an left him, lonely an heartsick to travel,Till th' time comes when aw may lig daanbeside them four bairns an ther mother.
An aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha beenIf aw'd gooan to that place wherether's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow;An aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should nivver ha seen,But aw'll try to be patient,an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.
Settin Off.
It isn't 'at aw want to rooamAn leeav thi bi thisen:For aw'm content enuff at hooam,Aw'm net like other men.But then ther's thee an childer three,To care for an protect,It's reight 'at yo should luk to me,An wrang should aw neglect.
Aw'm growin older ivvery day,My race is ommost run,Time's growin varry precious, lass,An lots remains undone.If aw wor called away, maybe,Tha'd find some other man,But tha cannot find a father,For them lads,—do th' best tha can.
Another husband might'nt proveAs kind as aw have been;An wedded life's a weary thing,When love's shut aght o'th' scene.Aw know aw've faults, aw'll own a lot,—But then, tha must agree,Aw've allus kept a tender spotWithin mi heart for thee.
An if aw've spokken nowty wordsAt's made thee cry an freeat;Aw've allus suffered twice as mich,An beg'd thi to forget.Tha'rt th' only woman maks me mad,Then soothes me wi' a smile,Then maks mi fancy aw'm a king,An snubs me all the while,
Nay,—nay,—old lass! it isn't funNor frolics that allure,—Aw'm strivin for thisen an bairns,To mak yor futur sure.It's duty at aw think aw oweTo them young things an thee,The thowts o' which may cheer mi heart,When aw lay daan to dee.
To th' Swallow.
Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee,For tha tells ov breeter weather;But aw connot quite forgie thee,—Connot love thee altogether.
'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome—'Tis the cheerin news tha brings,Tellin us fine weather will come,When we see thi dappled wings.
But aw'd rayther have a sparrow,—Rayther hear a robin twitter;—Tho' they may net be thi marrow,May net fly wi' sich a glitter;
But they nivver leeav us, nivver—Storms may come, but still they stay;But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver,Up tha mounts an flies away.
Ther's too monny like thee, swallow,'At when fortun's sun shines breet,Like a silly buzzard follow,Doncin raand a bit o' leet.
But ther's few like Robin redbreast,Cling throo days o' gloom an care;Soa aw love mi old tried friends best—Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.
A Wife.
Wod yo leead a happy life?Aw can show yo ha,—Get a true an lovin wife,—(Yo may have one nah.)If yo have, remember this,Be a true man to her,An whativver gooas amiss,Keep noa secrets throo her.
Some chaps think a wife's a toy,Just for ther caressin;But sichlike can ne'er enjoy,This world's richest blessin.Some ther are who think 'em slaves,Fit for nowt but drudgin,An if owt ther fancy craves,Give it to 'em grudgin.
Dooant forget yor patient wife,Like yorsen is human,For yo owe yor precious life,To another woman.Mak her equal wi' yorsen,(Ten to one shoo's better,)Tell her all yor plans, an thenIf shoo'll help yo, let her.
Oft yo'll find her ready wit,An her keen perception,Help yo're slower brains a bitWi' some new conception.Dooant expect 'at wives should beLike dumb breedin cattle,Spendin life contentedlyWi' ther babby's prattle.
If yo happen to be sick,Then they nurse an tend yo,An when trubbles gether thick,They can best befriend yo.An if sympathy yo need,Thear yo'll sure receive it,Yo accept it, but indeed,Yo but seldom give it.
If life's journey yo'd have breet,Mak yor wife yor treasure,Trustin her booath day an neet,Sharin grief an pleasure.Then yo'll find her smilin face,Ivver thear to cheer yo,An yo'll run a nobler race,Knowin 'at shoo's near yo.
Heart Brokken.
He wor a poor hard workin lad,An shoo a workin lass,An hard they tew'd throo day to day,For varry little brass.An oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin day,An lang'd for th' happy time,When poverty noa moor should part,Two lovers i' ther prime.
But wark wor scarce, an wages low,An mait an drink wor dear,They did ther best to struggle on,As year crept after year.But they wor little better off,Nor what they'd been befoor;It tuk 'em all ther time to keepGrim Want aghtside o'th' door.
Soa things went on, wol Hope at last,Gave place to dark despair;They felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts,An want an toil to share.At length he screw'd his courage upTo leeav his native shore;An goa where wealth wor worshipped less,An men wor valued moor.
He towld his tale;—poor lass!—a tearJust glistened in her e'e;Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen,But think sometimes o' me:An whether tha's gooid luck or ill,Tha knows aw shall be gladTo see thee safe at hooam agean,An welcome back mi lad."
"Awl labor on, an do mi best;Tho' lonely aw must feel,But awst be happy an contentIf tha be dooin weel.But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll,An keep us far apart;Tha's left a poor, poor lass behind,An taen away her heart."
"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget,Whearivver aw may rooam,That bonny face an lovin heart,Aw've prized soa dear at hooam?Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this,'At till next time we meetTha'll be mi first thowt ivvery morn,An last thowt ivvery neet."
He went away an years flew by,But tidins seldom came;Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh,But breathed noa word o' blame;When one fine day a letter came,'Twor browt to her at th' mill,Shoo read it, an her tremblin hands,An beating heart stood still.
Her fellow workers gathered raandAn caught her as shoo fell,An as her heead droop'd o' ther arms,Shoo sighed a sad "farewell."Poor lass! her love had proved untrue,He'd play'd a traitor's part,He'd taen another for his bride,An broke a trustin heart.
Her doleful stooary sooin wor known,An monny a tear wor shed;They took her hooam an had her laid,Upon her humble bed;Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to comeHer burial fees to pay;But some poor comrade's undertuk,To see her put away.
Each gave what little helps they could,From aght ther scanty stooar;I' hooaps 'at some 'at roll'd i' wealthWod give a trifle moor.But th' maisters ordered 'em away,Abaat ther business, sharp!For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice,An shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.
Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.
Nay surelee tha's made a mistak;Tha'rt aght o' thi element here;Tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack,Thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear.
Aw should think 'at theease rattlin loomsSaand queer sooart o' music to thee;An tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumesO' miln-greease,—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 wornt 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—farewellOff tha goas, bonny fly!—An it went.
Rejected.
Gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame,Tho' mi loss is hard to bide!For it wod ha' been a shame,Had tha ivver been the brideOf a workin chap like me;One 'ats nowt but love to gie.
Hard hoof'd neives like thease o' mine.Surely ne'er wor made to pressHands so lily-white as thine;Nor should arms like thease caressOne so slender, fair, an' pure,'Twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure.
But thease tears aw cannot stay,—Drops o' sorrow fallin fast,Hopes once held aw've put awayAs a dream, an think its past;But mi poor heart loves thi still,An' wol life is mine it will.
When aw'm seated, lone and sad,Wi mi scanty, hard won meal,One thowt still shall mak me glad,Thankful that alone aw feelWhat it is to tew an' striveJust to keep a soul alive.
Th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form,An' wild winds rush madly raand,But it whistles to the storm,In the barren home it's faand;Natur fits it to be poor,An 'twor vain to strive for moor.
If it for a lily sighed,An' a lily chonced to grow,When it found the fair one died,Powerless to brave the blowOf the first rude gust o' wind,Which had left its wreck behind.
Then 'twod own 'twor better fateNiver to ha' held the prize;Whins an' lilies connot mate,Sich is not ther destinies;Then 'twor wrang for one like me,One soa poor, to sigh for thee.
Then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame,Tho' mi loss it's hard to bide,For it wod ha' been a shameHad tha iver been mi bride;Content aw'll wear mi lonely lot,Tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not.
Persevere.
What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark,Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo;Let us buckle to awr wark,For ther's lots o' jobs to do:Tho' all th' world luks dark an drear,Let's ha faith, an persevere.
He's a fooil 'at sits an mumps'Coss some troubles hem him raand!Man mud allus be i'th dumps,If he sulk'd 'coss fortun fraand;Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:—Let's ha faith, an persevere.
If we think awr lot is hard,Nivver let us mak a fuss;Lukkin raand, at ivvery yard,We'st find others war nor us;We have still noa cause to fear!Let's ha faith, an persevere.
A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say,Nivver won a lady fair:Have a will! yo'll find a way!Honest men ne'er need despair.Better days are drawin near:—Then ha faith, an persevere.
Workin men,—nah we've a voice,An con help to mak new laws;Let us ivver show awr choiceLains to strengthen virtue's cause,Wrangs to reighten,—griefs to cheer;This awr motto—'Persevere.'
Let us show to foreign empiresLoyalty's noa empty booast;We can scorn the thirsty vampiresIf they dar molest awr cooast:To awr Queen an country dearStill we'll cling an persevere.
The printed version in Yorkshire Lyrics finishes hereThese two extra verses are from Yorkshire Ditties First Series.
But as on throo life we hurry,By whativver path we rooam,Let us ne'er forget i'th' worry,True reform begins at hooam:Then, to prove yorsens sincere,Start at once; an persevere.
Hard wark, happen yo may find it,Some dear folly to forsake,Be detarmined ne'er to mind it!Think, yor honor's nah at stake.Th' gooid time's drawin varry near!Then ha faith, an persevere.
A Pointer.
Just listen to mi stooary lads,It's one will mak yo grieve;It's full ov sich strange incidents;Yo hardly can believe.That lass aw cooarted, went one neetAght walkin wi' a swell;They ovvertuk me on mi way,An this is what befell.
They tuk me for a finger pooast;Aw stood soa varry still;An daan they set beside me,Just at top o' Beacon Hill.He sed shoo wor his deary;Shoo sed he wor her pet;'Twor an awkward sittiwationWhich aw shall'nt sooin forget.
Aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill,—They set daan at mi feet;He hugged her up soa varry cloise,Aw thowt ther lips must meet.He sed he loved wi' all his heart,Shoo fainted reight away;Aw darsn't luk,—aw darsn't start,But aw wished misen away.
They tuk me for, &c.
He bathed her temples from the brook;He sed shoo wor his life,It made me queer, becoss aw'd swornTo mak that lass mi wife.Shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead,Upon his heavin breast;An then shoo skriked, an off aw ran,But aw cannot tell the rest.
They tuk me for, &c.
They wedded wor, sooin after that,Aw thowt mi heart wod braik;—It didn't,—soa aw'm livin on,An freeatin for her sake.But sweet revenge,—it coom at last,For childer shoo had three,An they're all marked wi' a finger pooastWhear it didn't owt to be.
They tuk me for, &c.
An Acrostic.
H a! if yo'd nobbut known that lass,A w'm sure yo'd call her bonny;N oa other could her charms surpass,N oa other had as monny.A n ha aw lost mi peace o' mind,H ark! an aw'll tell if yor inclined.C awered in a nook one day aw set,R aand which wild flaars wor growin;O, that sweet time aw'st ne'er forget,S oa long as aw've mi knowin.T hear aw first saw this lovely lass;I n thowtful mood shoo tarried,"C ome be mi bride, sweet maid!" aw cried:"K eep off!" shoo skriked, "aw'm married!"
Help Thisen.
"Come, help thisen, lad,—help thisen!"Wor what mi uncle sed.We'd just come in throo makkin hay,To get some cheese an breead.An help misen aw did,—yo bet!Aw wor a growin lad;Aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet,'Twor th' grandest feed aw'd had.
When aw grew up aw fell i' love,—Shoo wor a bonny lass!But bein varry young an shy,Aw let mi chonces pass.Aw could'nt for mi life contriveA thing to do or say,For fear aw should offend her, soaAw let her walk away.
But what aw suffered nooan can tell;—Aw loved her as mi life!But dursn't ax her for the worldTo be mi darlin wife.Aw desperate grew,—we met,—aw ax'dFor just one kuss,—an then,Shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls,But let me help misen.
It's varry monny years sin then,—Mi hair's nah growin gray;But oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeardThat same owd farmer say,—When in some fix aw've vainly sowtFor aid from other men,—"Tha'rt wastin time,—if tha wants helpPluck up, an help thisen."
If th' prize yo long for seems too heigh,Dooant let yor spirits drop;Ther may be lots o' thrustin, butYo'll find ther's room at th' top.Yo connot tell what yo can doUntil yo've had a try;It may be a hard struggle, butYo'll get thear, by-an-bye.
Nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mindAn let it be yor creed,For sooin yo'll find fowk's promisesAre but a rotten reed.Feight yor own battles bravely throo,Yo'll sewerly win, an thenYo'll find ther's lots will help yo,When yo con help yorsen.
Bless 'em!
O, the lasses, the lasses, God bless 'em!His heart must be hard as a stooan'At could willingly goa an distress 'em,For withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan.
Tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growinFor Adam, wor scented soa sweet,He ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin,He trampled 'em under his feet.
He long'd to some sweet one to whisper;An wol sleepin Eve came to his home;He wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her,An ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come.
An tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented,An anxious fowk's saycrets to know,Pluck'd an apple,—noa daat shoo repentedWhen shoo saw at it made sich a row.
Tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her;For aw'm fairly convinced an declare,'At aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her,Nor all th' world an noa woman to share.
Then let us be kind to all th' wimmin,Throo th' poorest to th' Queen up oth' throne,For if, Eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin,It's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own.
"Another day will follow this,"Ah,—that shall sewerly be,But th' day 'at dawns to-morn, my lad,May nivver dawn for thee,This day is thine, soa use it weel,For fear when it has passed,Some duty has been left undoneOn th' day at proved thy last.
What's passed an gooan's beyond recall,An th' futer's all unknown;Dooant specilate on what's to be,Neglect in what's thi own.When morn in comes thank God tha'rt sparedTo see another day;An when tha goas to bed at neet,Life's burdens on Him lay.
Although thy station may be low,Thy life's conditions hard,Mak th' best o' what falls to thi lot,An tha shall win reward.Man's days ov toil on earth are fewCompared to that long rest'At stretches throo Eternity,For them 'at's done ther best.
Though monny rough hills tha's to climb,An bogs an becks to wade;Though thorns an brambles chooak thi path,Yet, push on undismayed.Detarmination, back'd wi' Faith,An Hope to cheer thi on,Shall gie thi strugglin efforts strength,Until thi journey's done.
Let thi religion be thi life,—Let ivvery word an deedBe prompted bi a love for all,Whativver be ther creed.Let wranglin praichers twist an twine,Ther doctrines new an old;Act square,—an ther is One will seeTha'rt net left aght i'th' cold.
His Dowter Gate Wed.
He'd had his share ov ups an daans,His sprees an troubles too;Ov country joys an life i' taans,He'd run th' whoal gamut throo.He labored hard to mak ends meet,An keep things all ship-shap:An th' naybor's sed, 'at lived i'th' street,"He's a varry daycent chap."
He paid his rent an gave his wifeEnuff for clooas an grub,To pleas her he'd insured his life,An joined a burial club.His childer,—grander nivver ranTo climb a father's knee;Noa better wife had onny man,—Noa praader chap could be.
He tuk noa stock i' fleetin time,He nivver caanted th' years;For he wor hale, just in his prime,An nowt to cause him fears.He nivver dreamt ov growin old,Sich thowts ne'er made him freat,He sed,—"Why aw'm as gooid as gold,Aw'm but a youngster yet!"
His childer thrave like willow wands,An made fine maids an men,But th' thowt ne'er entered in his nut,'At he grew old hissen.His e'en wor oppened one fine day,His dreams o' youth all fled;An th' reason on it wor, they say,—His dowter,—shoo gate wed.
"E'a, gow!" he sed, "but this licks me!Shoo's but a child hersen,—Ov all things!—why,—it connot beHer thowts should turn to men!""Whisht!" sed his wife, "we wed as young,An shoo's moor sense bi far,—An then tha knows shoo's th' grandest lass'At lives at Batley Carr."
He gave a grooan, for on his lassHe'd set a deal o' stooar.He lit his pipe an filled his glass,Then fixed his e'en o'th' flooar."By gum!" he sed, "but this is rough,Aw ne'er knew owt as bad,If shoo's a wife, its plain enuffAw connot be a lad."
"Aw must be old,—aw say,—old lass,—Does't think aw'm growin grey?Gooid gracious! but ha time does pass!But tha doesn't age a day.Tha'rt just as buxum nah as then,Aw'st think tha must feel shamed,Tha luks as young as her thisen,—Or could do, if tha framed."
"Aw'st ha to alter all mi ways,—Noa moor aw'st ha to rooam;—Just sattle daan an end mi daysCronkt up bith' hob at hooam.An 'fore owts long, as like as net,Wol crooidled up i'th' nook,Ther'll be some youngster browt, aw'll bet,To watch his grondad smook."
"Do stop! aw wonder ha tha dar,Behave thi soa unkind!Does't think 'at th' lads i' Batley CarrAre all booath dumb an blind?Shoo's wed a steady, honest chap,An shoo's booath gooid an fair,Ther's net another fit to swap,—They mak a gradely pair."
"'Man worn't made to live alooan,'Tha tell'd me that thisen:—Tha needn't shak thi heead an grooan;—Tha's happen changed sin then.But if ther ivver wor a crank,It's been my luck to see,It wor my childer's fatherWhen he furst coom coortin me."
"But rest content, its all for th' best;—An then tha must ha known,—Shoo thowt it time at shoo possestA nice hooam ov her own.""Well—may they prosper! That's my prayer,—They'st nivver want a friendWol aw'm alive,—but aw'st beware,An watch theas younger end."
All We Had.
It worn't for her winnin ways,Nor for her bonny faceBut shoo wor th' only lass we had,An that quite alters th' case.
We'd two fine lads as yo need see,An' weel we love 'em still;But shoo war th' only lass we had,An' we could spare her ill.
We call'd her bi mi mother's name,It saanded sweet to me;We little thowt ha varry sooinAwr pet wod have to dee.
Aw used to watch her ivery day,Just like a oppenin bud;An' if aw couldn't see her change,Aw fancied' at aw could.
Throo morn to neet her little tongueWor allus on a stir;Awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp,But nooan at lispt like her.
Sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks,'At childer shouldn't play;But then, they wor soa nicely done,We let her have her way.
But bit bi bit her spirits fell,Her face grew pale an' thin;For all her little fav'rite toysShoo didn't care a pin.
Aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads,Wi monny a doleful nod;Aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but stillAw couldn't think shoo wod.
Day after day my wife an' me,Bent o'er that suff'rin child,Shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me,Then shut her een an' smiled.
At last her spirit pass'd away;Her once breet een wor dim;Shoo'd heeard her Maker whisper 'come,'An' hurried off to Him.
Fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve,For God's will must be best;But when yo've lost a child yo've loved,It puts yor Faith to th' test.
We pick'd a little bit o' graand,Whear grass and daisies grew,An' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboonTher solemn shadows threw.
We saw her laid to rest, withinThat deep grave newly made;Wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall,On th' handle ov his spade.
It troubled us to walk away,An' leeav her bi hersen;Th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide,We'd niver felt till then.
But th' hardest task wor yet to come,That pang can ne'er be towld;'Twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't,An' locked her aat i'th' cowld.
'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek,'Twor then aw felt mooast sad;For shoo'd been sich a tender plant,An' th' only lass we had.
But nah we're growin moor resign'd,Although her face we miss;For He's blest us wi another,An we've hopes o' rearin this,
Th' First o'th Sooart.
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 enuffTo 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 neetWor 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 himHis uncle lived i' Pudsey taan,An' practised local praichin;An' if he 're lucky, he wor baanTo start a schooil for taichin.
But he wor takken varry ill;He felt his time wor comin:(They say he brought it on hisselWi' studdyin his summin.)He call'd his wife an' neighbors inTo hear his deein sarmon,An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sinTher 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 meanMy share o'th' last collection.—Tha'll see to that, an have what's fairWhen 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 uponIf ever they should ventur.
Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand:Says he, "What do you want, sir?If to goa in—yo understandUnknown 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 timeSome body coom—aw'll trust thee.Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine—Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."
Poor Old Hat.
Poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grownAn fowk call us old fashioned an odd;But monny's the storm we have met sin that day,When aw bowt thee all shiny an snod.As aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo,Fowk's manners wor cappin to see;An aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,'But aw know nah they nodded at thee.
Poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside,For awr friendship has lasted too long;Tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride,Tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng.Dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind,If another aw put i thi place;For aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind,Tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace.
Poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be,Aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen;An be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor theeAn have nubdy to care for me then.But one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel,An tha gave thi best days to mi use;Noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel,For aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse.
Poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door,Tha may happen be punced abaat th' street,For like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor,It wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet.Wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass,An fowk rave ov antique this an that,An they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas!Ther's nubdy respects an old hat.
Poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do,To burn thi aw havnt the heart,If aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo,An thart seedy enuff as tha art.Tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead,Soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin,For aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead,An aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin.
Poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot,If thart useful what moor can ta be?Better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot,An remember thart useful to me.Though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized,Tha but does what all earthly things must,For though we live honored, or perish despised,—We're at last but a handful o' dust.
Done Agean.
Aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish,We've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack,We've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish,An wi' currens its varry near black;We've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink,We've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock,We've a load o' puttates under th' sink,So we're pretty weel off as to jock.Aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide,But the cause aw dar hardly let aat;It suits me moor nor all else beside:Aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat.
Aw can nah have a spree to misel;Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass;An' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tellMy old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass.Some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed,He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife;If he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed,'At it's sure to breed trouble an strife;If it does aw'm net baan to throw up,Though awd mich rayther get on withaat;But who wodn't risk a blow up,For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.
Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet,For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob,Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't,'At mi frolic wod prove a done job.But aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face,To mak sure at its safe in its nick;—But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place!Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me,An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat,For it connot be th' wife, coss you seeIt's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.
But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side,An' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin;To chait her aw've monny a time tried,But I think it's nah time to give in,A chap may be deep as a well,But a woman's his maister when done;He may chuckle and flatter hissel,But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.It's a rayther unpleasant affair,Yet it's better it's happened noa daat;Aw'st be fain to come in for a shareO' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.
What it is to be a Mother.
A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother,An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.
Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer,Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun,Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilderOld Joab, wol his patience wor done.
They're i' mischief i' ivery corner,An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest;Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"An' another "The realms o' the blest."
Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em,They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed;For quiet yo niver can catch 'emUnless they're asleep an' i' bed.
For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us'At one on em's takken wi' fits;Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus,An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.
In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd,But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe;To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it,Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.
When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin',Aw try to be gradely, an' straight;For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin',He enjoys better what ther's to ait.
If aw tell him aw'm varry near finishedWi allus been kept in a fuss,He says, as he looks up astonished,"Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."
But aw wonder who does all ther mendin',Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags?But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in—They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.
But it allus wor soa, an' it will be,A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt;But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me,For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.
But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin'Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight;An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin',For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.
Ov a Monday aw start o' my weshin',An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried;Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen,An' mangle, an' iron beside.
Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin';Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew;Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin',An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.
Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets,Stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend,Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver,An' that brings a week's wark to its end.
Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner,It's ther only warm meal in a wick;Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner,For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.
But a chap mun be like to ha' summat,An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang,Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner,Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.
But if yor a wife an' a mother,Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind;Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother,An' to yor own comforts be blind.
But still, just to seer all ther places,When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet,Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces;It's nooan a despisable seet.
An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin',(Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean),'At if single, aw sooin should be playin'Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.
What they say.
They say 'at its a waste o' brass—a nasty habit too,—A thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do;Maybe they're reight;They say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,—Aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft,At ther consait.
At morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet,An aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet,It comforts me.An if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day,Aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away,An off they flee.
They tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show;Aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow,An bad to tell;They say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war;But aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as farAs me misel.
They say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,—For owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget,That's varry true.But aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee,To smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me:Aw'st manage throo,
They say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,—It may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs;Aw work mi share.If it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men,'Twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;—They've time to spare.
But what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan,If th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can,At morn or neet;They may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse,But aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use.Pass me a leet.
Young Jockey.
Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin,Ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin!Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin,For he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin;An he went to ax Jenny his wife for to be,But shoo sed, "Nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee,Thi legs luk too lanky,Thi heead is too cranky,Its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!"
Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun,Un, un, ry diddle dun!Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun,For his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done;An he went an tell'd Jenny, to end all his pains,He'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains,But shoo cared net a pin,An shoo sed wi' a grin,—"Befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in."
Missed his Mark.
Aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim,An even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame;Its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success,Th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less.Aw envy nubdy Fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,—But them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then.An them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark,An nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.
We connot allus hit it,—an ther's monny a toilin brain,Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain;An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away,An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay;Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame,An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game;Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark,Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.
Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,—Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains!Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,—For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod.Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride,Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side!Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark,Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.
Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;—Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes;Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,—If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below.An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end,He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend.An when they gently put him by,—unconscious, stiff an stark,His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'
When Lost.
If at hooam yo have to tew,Though yor comforts may be few,An yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad;Yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight,Wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt,But yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad.
Though yo've but a humble cot,An yore share's a seedy lot;Though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad,Yet yo'll find its mich moor wise,What yo have to fondly prize,For yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad.
Mak a Gooid Start.
Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fearWhat grum'lers an growlers may say;That nivver need cause yo a tear,For whear ther's a will ther's a way.If yo've plenty to ait an to drink,Nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough;If yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think,Yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff.
If yor temper gets saar'd an cross,An yor mind is disturbed an perplext;Or if troubled wi' sickness an loss,An yor poverty maks yo feel vext;—Nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeatAbaat things at yo connot prevent;An i'th futer ther may be a treeat,'At'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent,
I' this new life beginnin,—who knowsWhat for each on us may be i' stoor?For th' river o' Time as it flows,Weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door.At some it leeavs little, may be,An at others deposits a prize;But if yo be watchful yo'll seeTher's a trifle for each one 'at tries.
Ther's a time booath to wish an decide;—For a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews;—If yo snuff aght ambition an pride,Yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes,Wish for summat 'at's honest an reight,An detarmine yo'll win it or dee!Yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate,An th' black claads o' daat quickly flee.
Young men should seek labor an gains,Old men wish for rest an repose;—Young lasses want brave, lovin swains,An hanker for th' finest o' clooas.Old wimmin,—a cosy foirside,An a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah;Little childer, a horse they can ride,Or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee.
One thing a chap cant do withaat,Is a woman to share his estate;An mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat,Think life a dull thing baght a mate.Ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise,An its one at should be acted upon;—Yo'll do weel, to accept its advice,—To, "Begin as yo meean to goa on."
Stop at Hooam.
"Tha wodn't goa an leave me, Jim,All lonely by mysel?My een at th' varry thowts grow dim—Aw connot say farewell.
Tha vow'd tha couldn't live unlessTha saw me every day,An' said tha knew noa happinessWhen aw wor foorced away.
An th' tales tha towld, I know full weel,Wor true as gospel then;What is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feelSoa strange—unlike thisen?
Ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find,I'th taan whear tha wor born,To mak a livin, if tha'll mindTo ha' faith i' to-morn.
Aw've mony a time goan to mi warkThroo claads o' rain and sleet;All's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark,It ommust mud be neet.
But then, when braikfast time's come raand,Aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray,An' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunkLike skulkin lads away.
An' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breetAw've sowt some shade to rest,An' as aw've paddled hooam at neet,Glorious it's sunk i'th west.
An' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee,(An' trouble's hard to bide),Have patience, lad, an' wait an' seeWhat's hid o'th' tother side.
If aw wor free to please mi mind,Aw'st niver mak this stur;But aw've a mother ommust blind,What mud become o' her?
Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waikAn' helpless ivery limb,Aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braikIf aw'd to leave her, Jim.
Aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees'At tower up to th' sky,An' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze,Lie glitterin' jewels fly.
Woll th' music of a shepherd's reedMay gently float along,Lendin its tender notes to leadSome fair maid's simple song;
An' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side,Such as we niver see;But here at hooam, at ivery stride,There's flaars for thee an' me.
Aw care net for ther suns soa breet,Nor warblin melody;Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neetSaands sweeter, lad, to me.
An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan,A claat is noa disgrace;Tha'll niver find a heart moor warmBeat under silk or lace.
Then settle daan, tak my advice,Give up this wish to rooam!An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots niceWorth stoppin' for at hooam."
"God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e,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 throwWithaat 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."
Advice to Jenny.
Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee,An' dunnot luk soa sad;It grieves me varry mich to seeTha freeats abaat yon lad;For weel tha knows, withaat a daat,Whearivver he may be,Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat,He's allus true to thee.
Tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while,For wisdom comes wi' time,An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smileAt troubles sich as thine;A faithful chap is better far,Altho' he likes to rooam,Nor one 'at does what isn't reight,An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.
Tha needn't think 'at wedded lifeNoa disappointment brings;Tha munnot think to keep a chapTeed to thi appron strings.Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet,An' let thi heart be glad,For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet,Tha's wed a honest lad.
Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great,'At's sarvents at her call,Wod freely change her grand estateFor thine tha thinks soa small:For riches cannot buy content,Soa tho' thi joys be few,Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,—A heart 'at's kind an' true.
Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay,An' meet him wi' a kiss,Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stayWi treatment sich as this;But if thi een luk red like that,He'll see all's wrang at once,He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat,An' bolt if he's a chonce.
Jockey an Dolly.
Th' sun shone breet at early morn,Burds sang sweetly on the trees;Larks wor springin from the corn,Tender blossoms sowt the breeze.Jockey whistled as he wentO'er rich meadows wet wi' dew;In his breast wor sweet content,For his wants an cares were few.Dolly passed him on his way,Fresh an sweet an fair wor she;Jockey lost his heart that day,To the maid ov Salterlee.Jockey an DollyHad allus been jolly,Till Love shot his arrow an wounded the twain;Their days then pass sadly,Yet man an maid madly,In spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain.
Since that day did jockey pine,Dolly shyly kept apart;Still shoo milk'd her willin kine,Tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart,But one neet they met i'th' fold,When a silv'ry mooin did shine;Jockey then his true love told,An he axt, "will't thou be mine?"Tears ov joy filled Dolly's een,As shoo answered modestly;Dolly nah is Jockey's queen,Th' bonniest wife i' Salterlee.Jockey an Dolly,Are livin an jolly,May blessins for ivver attend i' ther train;Ther days they pass gladly,Noa moor they feel sadly,For two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' Love's chain.
Dooant Forget the Old Fowks.
Dooant forget the old fowks,—They've done a lot for thee;Remember tha'd a mother once,Who nursed thi on her knee.A father too, who tew'd all dayTo mak thi what tha art,An dooant forget tha owes a debt,An strive to pay a part.
Just think ha helpless once tha wor,—A tiny little tot;But tha wor given th' cosiest nookI' all that little cot.Thy ivvery want wor tended to,An soothed thy ivvery pain,They didn't spare love, toil or care,An they'd do it o'er ageean.An all they crave for what they gave,Is just a kindly word;—A fond "God bless yo parents,"Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.
Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c.
Tha's entered into business nah,—Tha'rt dooin pratty weel;Tha's won an tha desarves success,—Aw know tha'rt true as steel.Tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style,Tha's sarvents at thi call;But dooant forget thi mother, lad,To her tha owes it all.Thi father totters in his walk,His hair is growin grey;He cannot work as once he did,He's ommost had his day.But th' heart 'at loved thi when a child,Is still as warm an true;His pride is in his lad's success,—He hopes tha loves him too.But what they long for mooast ov all,Is just that kindly word,"God bless yo, my dear parents!"Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.
Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c,
Soa Bonny.
Aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea,An aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be;But aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad,Like her,—for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad.
Shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot,An when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot;An it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad,But oh! shoo wor bonny!—soa bonny mi lad.
Consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt,An shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt;An shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;—-For shoo knew shoo wor bonny,—soa bonny mi lad.
Fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand,But whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand;For th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad,For shoo wor soa bonny,—soa bonny mi lad.
But shoo wor like th' rest,—false,—false in her heart;Shoo made me to love her,—an Cupid's sharp dartWor nobbut her fun,—wi' decait it wor clad;—But then, shoo wor bonny;—soa bonny mi lad.
Shoo sooin wed another,—noa better nor me,An aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree;An aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad,But oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad.
Ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled,Shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled;Shoo may seek me agean;—if shoo does,—well, by gad!Aw'll welcome her back. Shoo's soa bonny mi lad.
The Linnet.
Little linnet,—stop a minnit,—Let me have a tawk with thee:Tell me what this life has in it,Maks thee seem so full o' glee?Why is pleasure i' full measure,Thine throo rooasy morn to neet,Has ta fun some wondrous treasure,Maks thi be for ivver breet?
—————
Sang the linnet,—"wait a minnit,Let me whisper in thine ear;Life has lots o' pleasure in it,Though a shadow's oftimes near.Ivvery shoolder has its burden,Ivvery heart its weight o' care;But if bravely yo accept it,Duty finds some pleasure thear.Lazy louts dooant know what rest is,—Those who labor find rest sweet;Grumling souls ne'er know what best is,—Blessins wither 'neath ther feet.Sorrow needs noa invitation,—Joy is shy an must be sowt;Grief seeks onny sitiwation,—Willin to accept for nowt.All pure pleasure is retirin,Allus modest,—shrinkin,—shy,—Like a violet,—but goa seek it,An yo'll find it by-an-bye.Birds an blossoms,—shaars an sunshine,Strive to cheer man on his way;An its nobbut them 'at willn't,'At cant taste some joy each day.Awm a teeny little songster,—All mi feathers plainly grave;But aw wish noa breeter plumage,Awm content wi' what aw have.An mi mate is just as lovin,An he sings as sweet to me,—An his message nivver varies,—'Love me love, as aw love thee.'An together, o'er awr nestlins,We keep watch, i' hooaps to see,They may sooin share in awr gladnessFull ov love,—from envy free.Grumbler,—cast a look araand thi;—Is this world or thee to blame?Joys an blessins all surraand thi,—Dar to grummel?—fie,—for shame!"
—————
An that linnet, in a minnit,Flitted off, the trees among;An those joys its heart had in it,Ovverflowed i' limpid song.An it left me sittin, blinkin,As it trill'd its nooats wi glee;—An truly,—to my way o' thinkin,Th' linnet's far moor sense nor me.
Mary Jane.
One Easter Mundy, for a spree,To Bradforth, Mary Jane an me,Decided we wod tak a jaunt,An have a dinner wi mi hont;For Mary Jane, aw'd have yo know,Had promised me, some time ago,To be mi wife,—an soa aw thowtAw'd introduce her, as aw owt.Mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,—To mak fowk welcome nivver looath,—An th' table grooaned wi richest fare,An one an all wor pressed to share,Mi sweetheart made noa moor to do.Shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe;Mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass,—"Well, God bless thi belly, lass!"
Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel,Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel;Shoo luks soa delicate an fair,Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air.But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed,For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist;Whear once shoo's called to get a snack,It's seldom at they've axt her back.To a cookshop we went one neet,An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet,Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin,But shoo went on an tuckt it in;An when aw axt ha mich we'd had,He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad."Aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,—"Well, God bless thi belly lass!"
But when a lass's een shine bright,Yo ne'er think ov her appetite;Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain,Nor did mi efforts prove in vain,For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day,An started life on little pay.But aw've noa reason to regret,Her appetite shoo keeps up yet.Eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine,An nah awr family numbers nine.A chap when wedded life begins,Seldom expects a brace o' twins;But Mary Jane's browt that for me,—Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee;An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass,Aw say, "God bless thi belly lass!"
We have noa wealth i' gold or lands,But cheerful hearts, an willin hands;Altho soa monny maaths to fill,We live i' hooaps an labor still.Ther little limbs when stronger grown,Will be a fortun we shall own.We're in a mooild thro morn to neet,But rest comes to us doubly sweet,An fowk learn patience, yo can bet,When they've to care for sich a set.But we can honestly declare,Ther isn't one at we can spare.Ther little tricks cause monny a smile,An help to leeten days o' toil.An joyfully aw say, "Bith' mass!Well, God bless thi childer, lass."
My Lass.
Fairest lass amang the monny,Hair as black as raven, O.Net another lass as bonny,Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.City lasses may be fairer,May be donned i' silks an laces,But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer,Nooan can show sich bonny faces.Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre,Show thou art no craven, O;In thy strains 'at mooast inspire,Sing the praise ov Craven, O.
Purest breezes toss their tresses,Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O,An old Sol wi' warm caresses,Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O.Others may booast birth an riches,May have studied grace ov motion,But they lack what mooast bewitches,—Hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion.Perfect limbs an round full bosoms,Sich as set men ravin, O,Only can be faand i' blossoms,Sich as bloom i' Craven, O,
An amang the fairest,—sweetest,Ther's net sich a brave en, O;For her beauty's the completest,Yo can find i' Craven, O.Ivvery charm 'at mother NatureHad to give, shoo placed upon her,—-Modest ways, an comely feature—Health ov body,—soul ov honorIsn't shoo a prize worth winnin?An a gem worth savin, O?Smile on,—sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin,When my lass leeaves Craven, O.
A Gooid Kursmiss Day.
It wor Kursmiss day,—we wor ready for fun,Th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done;Th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin,An th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in.Th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas,An th' lasses,—they each luckt as sweet as a rooas;An th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob,An th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob,An aw sed, "Nah, old lass,Tho we havn't mich brass,We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."
Th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock,Yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock,But we winkt one at tother as mich as to say,They mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay.Then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside,An they couldn't ha made mich moor din if they'd tried,For they skriked an they giggled an shaated like mad,An th' wife sed, "They're happy," an aw sed, "Awm glad,An be thankful old lass,Tho we havn't mich brass,We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."