When wintry storms howl ovver th' moor,An snow covers all, far an wide,Aw carefully festen mi door,An creep cloise up to th' fire inside.
A basin o' porridge may be,To some a despisable dish,But it allus comes welcome to me,If awve nobbut as mich as aw wish.
Mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say,An aw havn't a daat but it's true;Yet they answer ther purpose to-dayJust as weel as if th' fashion wor new.
Let them at think joys nobbut dwellWheear riches are piled up i' stoor,Try to get a gooid share for thersel'But leave me mi snug cot up o'th' moor.
Mi bacca's all done, soa aw'll creepOff to bed, just as quite as a maase,For if Dolly's disturbed ov her sleep,Ther'll be a fine racket i'th' haase.
Aw mun keep th' band i'th' nick if aw can,For if shoo gets her temper once crost,All comforts an joys aw may planIs just soa mich labour at's lost.
Th' Short-Timer.
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 wol 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 beWhen sich as theeShall 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 uphisgains,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 at makes em grand—They nivver think o' that.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
I' summer time they romp an' playWhere 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,Foa hauf-a-craan a wick.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
Aw envy net fowks' better lot—Aw shouldn't like to swap.Aw'm quite contented wi mi cot;Aw'm but a workin chap.But if aw had a lot o' brassAw'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 hereMay envy thee above.
Poor lassie wan, &c.
Sol an' Doll.
Awm a young Yorksher lad as jolly an gay,As a lark on a sunshiny mornin,An Dolly's as fair as the flaars i' May,An trubbles we meean to be scornin.If we live wol to-morn aw shall make her mi wife,An we'll donce to a rollickin measure,For we booath are agreed to begin wedded life,As we mean to goa throo it, wi pleasure.
Then we'll donce an be gay,An we'll laff care away,An we'll nivver sit broodin o'er sorrow,An mi Dolly an me,Ax yo all to a spree;Come an donce at awr weddin to-morrow.
Awst be bashful awm sewer, aw wor ne'er wed befoor,An aw feel rayther funny abaat it;But Dolly aw guess can drag me aght o'th' mess,An if ther's owt short we'll do baat it.Mi mother says "Sol, if tha'll leave it to Doll,Tha'll find shoo can taich thee a wrinkle,Shoo's expectin some fun befoor it's all doneAw can tell, for aw saw her e'en twinkle."
Then we'll donce &c.
We've a haase to step in, all as smart as a pin,An we've beddin an furnitur plenty;We've a pig an a caah, an aw connot tell haMonny paands, but aw think abaat twenty.We've noa family yet, but ther will be aw'll bet,For true comfort aw think ther's nowt licks itAn if they dooant come, aw'll just let it alooan,An aw'll leave it for Dolly to fix it.
Then we'll donce &c.
Their Fred.
"He's a nowt!If ther's owtAt a child shouldn't do,He mun try,Or know why,Befoor th' day's getten throo.An his dad,Ov his ladTaks noa nooatice at all,Aw declareIt's net fairFor Job's patience he'd stall.Awm his mam,—That aw am,But awm ommost worn aght,A gooid lickWi a stick,He just cares nowt abaght.Thear he goes,Wi a nooasLike a chaneller's shop!Aw may call,Or may bawl,But th' young imp willn't stop.Thear's a cat,He spies that,Nah he's having a race!—That's his wayIvvery dayIf a cat's abaght th' place.But if awWor near by,Awd just fotch him a seawse!Come thee here!Does ta hear?Come thi ways into th' haase!Who's that flat?What's he at?If he touches awr Fred,If aw liveAw'll goa riveIvvery hair off his head!What's th' lad done?It's his fun!Tried to kill yor old cat?Well suppooasAt he does!Bless mi life! What bi that?He's mi own,Flesh an' booan,An aw'll net have him lickt;If he's wild,He's a child,Pray what can yo expect!Did um doy!Little joy!Let's ha nooan o' them skrikesNowty man!Why he canKill a cat if he likes.Hush a bee, hush a bye,Little Freddy munnot cry."
Love an' Labor.
Th' swallows are buildin ther nests, Jenny,Th' springtime has come with its flowers;Th' fields in ther greenest are drest, Jenny,An th' songsters mak music ith' bowers.Daisies an buttercups smile, Jenny,Laughingly th' brook flows along;—An awm havin a smook set oth' stile, Jenny,But this bacca's uncommonly strong.
Aw wonder if thy heart like mine, Jenny,Finds its love-burden hard to be borne;Do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, Jenny,As they glistened an shone yestermorn?Ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, Jenny,Aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate;—But aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, Jenny,For aw can't live baght summat to ait.
Like a nightingale if aw could sing, Jenny,Aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet,An mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, Jenny,An lull thi to rest soft an sweet.Or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, Jenny,Aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish;—But theas porridge are salty as brine, Jenny,An they'll mak me as dry as a fish.
A garland ov lillies aw'd twine, Jenny,An place on thy curls golden bright,But aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, Jenny,I' despair at thy brow's purer white.Them angels 'at fell bi ther pride, Jenny,Wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt;—But yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, Jenny,Aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt.
Varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, Jenny,An awr cot shall a paradise be;Tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, Jenny,If aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee.If ther's happiness this side oth' grave, Jenny,Tha shall sewerly come in for thi share;—An aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, Jenny,When aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare.
Nooan so Bad.
This world is net a paradise,Tho' railly aw dooant see,What fowk should growl soa mich abaat;—Its gooid enuff for me.It's th' only world aw've ivver known,An them 'at grummel soa,An praich abaat a better land,Seem varry looath to goa.
Ther's some things 'at awm apt to think,If aw'd been th' engineer,Aw might ha changed,—but its noa use,—Aw connot interfere.We're foorced to tak it as it is;What faults we think we see;It mayn't be what it owt to be,—But its gooid enuff for me.
Then if we connot alter things,Its folly to complain;To hunt for faults an failins,Allus gooas agean my grain.When ther's soa monny pleasant things,Why should we hunt for pain,If troubles come, we needn't freeat,For sunshine follows rain.
If th' world gooas cruckt,—what's that to us?We connot mak it straight;But aw've come to this conclusion,'At its th' fowk 'at isn't reight.If ivverybody 'ud try to doTher best wi' th' means they had,Aw think 'at they'd agree wi' me,—This world is nooan soa bad.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
It's hard what poor fowk mun put up wi'!What insults an snubs they've to tak!What bowin an scrapin's expected,If a chap's a black coit on his back.As if clooas made a chap ony better,Or riches improved a man's heart;As if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeterNor th' same muck wod smell in a cart.
Give me one, hard workin, an' honest,Tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse;If it's muck 'at's been getten bi labor,It doesn't mak th' man onny worse.Awm sick o' thease simpering dandies,'At think coss they've getten some brass,They've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers,An' curl up their nooas as they pass.
It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin,To be curlin an partin ther hair;An seekin one's own fun and pleasure,Nivver thinkin ha others mun fare.It's all varry weel to be spendinTher time at a hunt or a ball,But if th' workers war huntin an doncin,Whativer wod come on us all?
Ther's summat beside fun an frolicTo live for, aw think, if we try;Th' world owes moor to a honest hard workerNor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky.Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful,An' awve oft felt a want on't misen,Yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin,But it wodn't do long withaat men.
One truth they may put i' ther meersham,An smoke it—that is if they can;A man may mak hooshuns o' riches,But riches can ne'er mak a man.Then give me that honest hard worker,'At labors throo mornin to neet,Tho' his rest may be little an seldom,Yet th' little he gets he finds sweet.
He may rank wi' his wealthier brother,An rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some;For a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard laborIs a passport to th' world 'at's to come.For we know it's a sin to be idle,As man's days i' this world are but few;Then let's all wi' awr lot be contented,An continue to toil an to tew.
For ther's one thing we all may be sure on,If we each do awr best wol we're here;'At when th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on,We shall have varry little to fear.An at last, when we throw daan awr tackle,An are biddin farewell to life's stage,May we hear a voice whisper at partin,"Come on, lad! Tha's haddled thi wage."
Peevish Poll.
Aw've heeard ov Mary Mischief,An aw've read ov Natterin Nan;An aw've known a Grumlin Judy,An a cross-grained Sarah Ann;But wi' all ther faults an failins,They still seem varry tame,Compared to one aw'll tell yo on,But aw dursn't tell her name.
Aw'll simply call her Peevish Poll,That name suits to a dot;But if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her,Yo bet, aw'st get it hot.Shoo's fat an fair an forty,An her smile's as sweet as spice,An her voice is low an tenderWhen shoo's tryin to act nice.
Shoo's lots ov little winnin ways,'At fit her like a glove;An fowk say shoo's allus pleasant,—Just a woman they could love.But if they nobbut had her,They'd find aght for a start,It isn't her wi' th' sweetest smileAt's getten th' kindest heart.
Haivver her poor husband livesAn stands it,—that licks doll!Aw'st ha been hung if aw'd been cursedWi' sich a wife as Poll!Her children three, sneak in an aghtAs if they wor hawf deeadThey seem expectin, hawf ther time,A claat o'th' side o'th' heead.
If they goa aght to laik, shoo stormsAbaat her looanly state;If they stop in, then shoo declaresThey're allus in her gate.If they should start to sing or tawkShoo tells 'em, "hold yor din!"An if they all sit mum, shoo says,"It railly is a sinTo think ha shoo's to sit an mope,All th' time at they're away,An when they're hooam they sit like stoopsWithaat a word to say."
If feelin cold they creep near th' fire,They'll varry sooin get floored;Then shoo'll oppen th' door an winderDeclarin shoo's fair smoored.When its soa swelterin an hotThey can hardly get ther breeath,Shoo'll pile on coils an shut all cloise,An sware shoo's starved to deeath.
Whativver's wrang when they're abaat,Is their fault for bein thear;An if owt's wrang when they're away,It's coss they wornt near.To keep 'em all i' misery,Is th' only joy shoo knows;An then shoo blames her husband,For bein allus makkin rows.
Poor chap he's wearin fast away,—He'll leeav us before long;A castiron man wod have noa chonceWi' sich a woman's tongue.An then shoo'll freeat and sigh, an tryHis virtues to extol;But th' mourner, mooast sincere will beThat chap 'at next weds Poll.
The Old Bachelor's Story.
It was an humble cottage,Snug in a rustic lane,Geraniums and fuschias peep'dFrom every window-pane;
The dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls,Houseleek adorned the thatch;The door was standing open wide,—They had no need of latch.
And close besides the cornerThere stood an old stone well,Which caught a mimic waterfall,That warbled as it fell.
The cat, crouched on the well-worn steps,Was blinking in the sun;The birds sang out a welcomeTo the morning just begun.
An air of peace and happinessPervaded all the scene;The tall trees formed a back groundOf rich and varied green;
And all was steeped in quietness,Save nature's music wild,When all at once, methought I heardThe sobbing of a child.
I listened, and the sound againSmote clearly on my ear:"Can there,"—I wondering asked myself—"Can there be sorrow here?"—
I looked within, and on the floorWas sat a little boy,Striving to soothe his sister's griefBy giving her a toy.
"Why weeps your sister thus?" I asked;"What is her cause of grief?Come tell me, little man," I said,"Come tell me, and be brief."
Clasping his sister closer still,He kissed her tear-stained face,And thus, in homely Yorkshire phrase,He told their mournful case.
———
"Mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear,I' th' shut-up bed i'th' nook;An' tho aw've tried to wakken her,Shoo'll nawther spaik nor look.
Mi sissy wants her porridge,An its time shoo had 'em too;But th' foir's gooan aght an th' mail's all done—Aw dooant know what to do.
An O, my mammy's varry cold—Just come an touch her arm:Aw've done mi best to hap her up,But connot mak her warm.
Mi daddy he once fell asleep,An nivver wakken'd moor:Aw saw 'em put him in a box,An tak him aght o'th' door.
He nivver comes to see us nah,As once he used to do,An let mi ride upon his back—Me, an mi sissy too.
An if they know mi mammy sleeps,Soa cold, an white, an still,Aw'm feeard they'll come an fotch her, sir;O, sir, aw'm feeard they will!
Aw happen could get on misen,For aw con work a bit,But little sissy, sir, yo see,Shoo's varry young as yet.
Oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam!Help me to rouse her up!An if shoo wants her physic,See,—it's in this little cup.
Aw know her heead wor bad last neet,When putting us to bed;Shoo said, 'God bless yo, little things!'An that wor all shoo sed.
Aw saw a tear wor in her e'e—In fact, it's seldom dry:Sin daddy went shoo allus cries,But nivver tells us why.
Aw think it's coss he isn't here,'At maks her e'en soa dim;Shoo says, he'll nivver come to us,But we may goa to him.
But if shoo's gooan an left us here,What mun we do or say?—We connot follow her unless,Somebody 'll show us th' way."
——
My heart was full to bursting,When I heard the woeful tale;I gazed a moment on the faceWhich death had left so pale;
Then clasping to my heaving breastThe little orphan pair,I sank upon my bended knees,And offered up a prayer,
That God would give me power to aidThose children in distress,That I might as a father beUnto the fatherless.
Then coaxingly I led them forth;And as the road was long,I bore them in my arms by turns—Their tears had made me strong.
I took them to my humble home,Where now they may be seen,The lad,—a noble-minded youth,—His "sissy,"—beauty's queen.
And now if you should chance to see,Far from the bustling throng,An old man, whom a youth and maidLead tenderly along;—
And if you, wondering, long to knowThe history of the three,—They are the little orphan pair—The poor old man is me:
And oft upon the grassy mound'Neath which their parents sleep,They bend the knee, and pray for me;I pray for them and weep.
Did yo Ivver!
"Gooid gracious!" cried Susy, one fine summer's morn,"Here's a bonny to do! aw declare!Aw wor nivver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born!Aw neer saw sich a seet at a fair.
Here, Sally! come luk! There's a maase made its nestReight i'th' craan o' mi new Sundy bonnet!Haivver its fun its way into this chist,That caps me! Aw'm fast what to mak on it!
It's cut! Sithee thear! It's run reight under th' bed!An luk here! What's these little things stirrin?If they arn't some young uns 'at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred,May aw be as deead as a herrin!
But what does ta say? 'Aw mun draand 'em?' nooan soa!Just luk ha they're seekin ther mother;Shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa;For awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother.
But its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear;For mi old en's net fit to be seen in;An this new en, awm thinkin, 'll luk rayther queerAfter sich a rum lot as that's been in.
But shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say;Yo mun keep a sharp eye or shoo'll chait us;Ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! An prayWhat mun become o' these poor helpless crayturs?
A'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet,'At's a roof o' ther own to cawer under,For if we'd to seek ony nook we could get,Whativver'd come on us aw wonder?
We should nooan on us like to be turned aght o' door,Wi' a lot o' young bairns to take care on;An altho' awm baght bonnet, an think misen poor,What little aw have yo'st have't share on.
That poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm,Shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me;All shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an warmAn a gooid two-o'-three shillin its lost me.
Aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk,They'll be aristocratical varmin;But awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk,An na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin.
Bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! If we tryAwm weel sure we can easily spare 'em,But as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly!Nivver mind if aw dooant! harum scarum!"
A Quiet Tawk.
"Nah, lass, caar thi daan, an let's have a chat,—It's long sin we'd th' haase to ussen;Just give me thi nooations o' this thing an that,What tha thinks abaat measures an men.We've lived a long time i' this world an we've seen,A share of its joys an its cares;Tha wor nooan born baght wit, an tha'rt net varry green,Soa let's hear what tha thinks of affairs."
"Well, Jooany, aw've thowt a gooid deal i' mi time,An aw think wi' one thing tha'll agree,—If tha'd listened sometimes to advice sich as mine,It mud ha been better for thee.This smookin an drinkin—tha knows tha does booath,It's a sad waste o' brass tha'll admit;But awm net findin fault,—noa indeed! awd be looath!But aw want thi to reason a bit."
"Then tha'rt lawse i' thi tawk, tho' tha doesn't mean wrang,An tha says stuff aw darnt repeat;An tha grumels at hooam if we chonce to be thrang,When tha comes throo thi wark of a neet.An if th' childer are noisy, tha kicks up a shine,Tha mud want 'em as dummy as wax;An if they should want owt to laik wi' 'at's thine,They're ommost too freetened to ax."
"An they all want new clooas, they're ashamed to be seen,An aw've net had a new cap this year;An awm sewer it's fair cappin ha careful we've been,There's nooan like us for that onnywhear.""Come, lass, that's enuff,—when aw ax'd thi to talk,It worn't a sarmon aw meant,Soa aw'll don on mi hat, an aw'll goa for a walk,For dang it! tha'rt nivver content!"
Lines, on Startling a Rabbit.
Whew!—Tha'rt in a famous hurry!Awm nooan baan to try to catch thi!Aw've noa dogs wi' me to worryThee poor thing,—aw like to watch thi.Tha'rt a runner! aw dar back thi,Why, tha ommost seems to fly!Did ta think aw meant to tak thi?Well, awm fond o' rabbit pie.
Aw dooan't want th' world to misen, mun,Awm nooan like a dog i'th' manger;Yet still 'twor happen best to run,For tha'rt th' safest aght o' danger.An sometimes fowks' inclinationLeads 'em to do what they shouldn't;—But tha's saved me a temptation,—Aw've net harmed thi, 'coss aw couldn't.
Aw wish all temptations fled me,As tha's fled throo me to-day;For they've oft to trouble led me,For which aw've had dear to pay.An a taicher wise aw've faand thi,An this lesson gained throo thee;'At when dangers gether raand me,Th' wisest tactics is to flee.
They may call thi coward, Bunny,But if mine had been thy lot,Aw should fail to see owt funny,To be stewin in a pot.Life to thee, awm sewer is sweeter,Nor thi flesh to me could prove;May thy lot an mine grow breeter,Blest wi' liberty an love.
Nivver Heed.
Let others boast ther bit o' brass,That's moor nor aw can do;Aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class,'At's strugglin to pool throo;An if it's little 'at aw get,It's little 'at aw need;An if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,Aw try to nivver heed.
Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,An mourn ther sorry fate,Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,An dine off silver plate;Aw think they'd show more gradely witTo listen to my creed,An things they find they connot get,Why, try to nivver heed.
Ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls,An letters to ther name;But happiness despises walls,It's nooan a child o' fame.A robe may lap a woeful chap,Whose heart wi' grief may bleed,Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,Soa hang it! nivver heed!
Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,An' th' meadows smell as sweet,Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,An th' flaars smile at mi feet.An when a hard day's wark is done,Aw ait mi humble feed;Mi appetite's a relish fun,Soa hang it, nivver heed.
Gronfayther's Days.
'A, Johnny! A'a, Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!But come thi ways to me, an sit o' mi knee;For it's shockin to hearken to th' words 'at tha says;—Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days.
When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then;But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen;For they smook, an they drink, an get other bad ways;Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.
Aw remember th' furst day aw went cooartin a bit,—An walked aght thi gronny;—aw'st nivver forget;For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;—It wor noa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days,
Ther's noa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed;They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead;They're a mak-up o' buckram, an waddin, an stays,—But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.
At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor,But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door;He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays;Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's chimleys an factrys i' ivvery nook nah,But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah;An ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways,Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.
We're tell'd to be thankful for blessin's 'at's sent,An aw hooap 'at tha'll alius be blessed wi' content;Tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays,But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.
Awr Dooad.
Her ladyship's getten a babby,—An they're makkin a famous to do,—They say,—Providence treated her shabby—Shoo wor fairly entitled to two.But judgin bi th' fuss an rejoicin,It's happen as weel as it is;For they could'nt mak moor ov a hoilful,Nor what they are makkin o' this.
He's heir to ther titles an riches,Far moor nor he ivver can spend;Wi' hard times an cold poverty's twitches,He'll nivver be called to contend.Life's rooad will be booarded wi' flaars,An pleasur will wait on his train,He can suck at life's sweets, an its saarsWill nivver need cause him a pain.
Aw cannot help thinkin ha diff'rentIt wor when awr Dooady wor born;Aw'd to tramp fifteen mile throo a snow storm,One bitterly, cold early morn.Aw'd to goa ax old Mally-o'th'-Hippins,If shoo'd act as booath doctor an nurse;—An God bless her! shoo sed, "Aye, an welcome,"Tho' aw had'nt a meg i' mi purse.
'Twor hard scrattin to get what wor needed,But we managed someha, to pool throo';An what we wor short we ne'er heeded,For that child fun us plenty to do.But we'd health, an we loved one another,Soa things breetened up after a while;An nah, that young lad an his mother,Cheer mi on wi' ther prattle an smile.
Them at th' Hall, may mak feeastin an bluster,An ther table may grooan wi' its looad;But ther's one thing aw know they can't muster,—That's a lad hawf as grand as awr Dooad.For his face is like lillies an rooases,An his limbs sich as seldom are seen;An just like his father's his nooas is,An he's getten his mother's blue een.
Soa th' lord an his lady are welcome,To mak all they like o' ther brat;They may hap him i' silk an i' velvet,—He's net a bit better for that.I' life's race they'll meet all sooarts o' weather,But if they start fair on th' same rooad,Theymayrun pratty nearly together,But aw'll bet two to one on awr Dooad.
Whear Natur Missed it.
As Rueben wor smookin his pipe tother neet,Bi th' corner o'th' little "Slip Inn;"He spied some fowk marchin, an fancied he heeardA varry queer sooart ov a din.As nearer they coom he sed, "Bless mi life!What means all this hullaballoo?If they dooant stop that din they'll sewer get run in,An just sarve 'em reight if they do."
But as they approached, he saw wi' surprise,They seemed a respectable lot;An th' hymn at they sung he'd net heeard for soa long,Wol he felt fairly rooited to th' spot.I'th' front wor a woman who walked backards rooad,Beatin time wi' a big umberel,An he sed, "Well, aw'll bet, that licks all aw've seen yet,What they'll do next noa mortal can tell."
On they coom like a flood, an shoo saw Rueben stood,—An her een seemed fair blazin wi' leet;"Halt!" shoo cried, an shoo went an varry sooin sentRueben's pipe flyin off into th' street."Young man," shoo began, "if yo had been bornTo smoke that old pipe, then insteead,Ov a nice crop o' hair Natur wod a put thearA chimly at top o' thi heead."
Rueben felt rather mad, for 'twor all th' pipe he had,An he sed, "Well, that happen mud be;But aw'm nobbut human, an thee bein a womanHas proved a salvation to thee.If a chap had done that aw'd ha knocked him daan flat,But wi' yo its a different thing;But aw'm thinkin someha, th' same law will allaaMe too smook, at allaas yo to sing."
Shoo gloored in his face an went back to her place,As shoo gave him a witherin luk;An swung her umbrel,—ovverbalanced, an fellAn ligg'd sprawlin her length amang th' muck.All her army seemed dumb, an th' chap wi' th' big drum,Turned a bulnex, an let on her chest;Wol th' fiddles an flute wor ivvery one mute,An th' tamborines tuk a short rest.
Then Rueben drew near, an he sed in her ear,As he lifted her onto her feet;"Sometimes its as wise when we start to advise,To be mindful we're net indiscreet.If yo'd been intended to walk backardsway,To save yo from gettin that bump,Dame Natur, in kindness, aw'll ventur to say,Wod ha planted a e'e i' yor bustle."
That's All.
Mi hair is besprinkled wi' gray,An mi face has grown wrinkled an wan;—They say ivvery dog has his day,An noa daat its th' same way wi a man.Aw know at mi day is nah passed,An life's twileet is all at remains;An neet's drawin near varry fast,—An will end all mi troubles an pains.
Aw can see misen, nah, as a lad,Full ov mischief an frolic an fun;—An aw see what fine chonces aw had,An regret lots o' things at aw've done.Thowtless deeds—unkind words—selfish gains,—Time wasted, an more things beside,But th' saddest thowt ivver remains,—What aw could ha done, if aw'd but tried.
Aw've had a fair share ov life's joys,An aw've nivver known th' want ov a meal;Aw've ne'er laiked wi' luxuries' toys,Nor suffered what starvin fowk feel.But aw'm moor discontented to-day,When mi memory carries me back,To know what aw've gethered is clay,Wol diamonds wor strewed on mi track.
Aw can't begin ovver agean,(Maybe its as weel as it is,)Soa aw'm waitin for th' life 'at's to be,For ther's nowt to be praad on i' this.When deeath comes, as sewerly it will,An aw'm foorced to respond to his call;Fowk'll say, if they think on me still,—"Well, he lived,—an that's abaat all."
Mary Hanner's Peanner.
When aw cooarted Mary Hanner,Aw wor young an varry shy;An shoo used to play th' peannerWol aw sheepishly sat by.Aw lang'd to tell her summat,But aw railly hadn't th' pluck,Tho' monny a time aw started,Yet, somha aw allus stuck.
Aw'm sewer shoo must ha guess'd it,But shoo nivver gave a sign;Shoo drummed at that peanner;—A'a! aw wish it had been mine!Aw'd ha chopt it into matchwood,—Aw'd ha punced it into th' street,It wor awful aggravatin,For shoo thumpt it ivvery neet.
Aw'd getten ommost sickened,When one day another chapAw saw thear, an he'd gettenMary Hanner on his lap.Aw didn't stop to argyfy,—But fell'd him like an ox;An Mary Hanner tried to flyOn top o'th' music box.
But he wor gam,—an sich a jobAw'd nivver had befor,We fowt, but aw proved maister,An aw punced him aght o'th' door.Then like a Tigercat, at meFlew ragin Mary Hammer;—Yo bet! shoo could thump summat else,Besides her loud peanner!
Aw had to stand an tak her blows,Until shoo'd geeten winded;"Tha scamp!" shoo says, "tha little knowsWhat bargainin tha's hindered!Awr Jack had nobbut coom to pay,Becoss he's bowt th' peanner,An nah tha's driven him away!""Forgie me, Mary Hanner."
Aw ran aghtside an sooin fan Jack,An humbly begged his parden;—"All reight,"—he sed, "aw'm commin back,"He didn't care a farden.He paid her th' brass, then fetched a cart,An hauled away th' peanner;—We're wed sin then, an nowt shall part,Me an mi Mary Hanner.
Grondad's Lullaby.
Sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near,Noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear;Innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik,Grondad wod give up his life for thy sake,Sleep little beauty,Angels thee keep,Grondad is watchin,Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Through the thick mist of past years aw luk back,Vainly aw try to discover the trackBuried, alas! for no trace can aw see,Ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee,Sleep little beauty,Angels thee keep,Grondad is watchin,Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Smilin in slumber,—dreamin ov bliss,Feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss;Richer bi far nor a king on his throne,Fearlessly facing a future unknown.Sleep little beauty,Angels thee keep,Grondad is watchin,Sleep, beauty, sleep.
What wod aw give could aw once agean be,Innocent, spotless an trustin as thee;May noa grief give thee occasion to weep,Blessins attend thee!—Sleep, beauty, sleep.Sleep little beauty,Angels thee keep,Grondad is watchin,Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Sixty, Turned, To-day.
Aw'm turned o' sixty, nah, old lass,Yet weel aw mind the time,When like a young horse turned to grass,Aw gloried i' mi prime.Aw'st ne'er forget that bonny face'At stole mi heart away;Tho' years have hurried on apace:—Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.
We had some jolly pranks an gams,E'en fifty year ago,When sportive as a pair o' lambs,We nivver dreeamed ov woe.When ivvery morn we left us bed,Wi' spirits leet an gay,—But nah, old lass, those days have fled:—Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.
Yet we've noa reason to repine,Or luk back wi' regret;Those youthful days ov thine an mine,Live sweet in mem'ry yet.Thy winnin smile aw still can see,An tho' thi hair's turned grey;Tha'rt still as sweet an dear to me,Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.
We've troubles had, an sickness too,But then in spite ov all,We've somha managed to pool throo,Whativver might befall.Awr pleasurs far outweighed the painWe've met along life's way;An losses past aw caant as gain,—When sixty, turned, to-day.
Awr childer nah are wed an gooan,To mak hooams for thersels;But we shall nivver feel alooan,Wol love within us dwells.We're drawin near awr journey's end,We can't much longer stay;Yet still awr hearts together blend,Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.
Then let us humbly bow the knee,To Him, whose wondrous love,Has helpt an guided thee an me,On th' pathway to above.His mercies we will ne'er forget,Then let us praise an pray,To Him whose wings protect us yet;Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.
That Lad Next Door.
Aw've nowt agean mi naybors,An aw wod'nt have it sed'At aw wor cross an twazzy,For aw'm kind an mild asteead.But ther's an end to patience,E'en Job knew that aw'm sewer;—An he nivver had noa dealinsWi' that lad 'at lives next door.
It wod'nt do to tell 'emWhat aw think abaat that lad,One thing aw'm sarten sewer on,Is, he's ivverything 'at's bad.He's nivver aght o' mischief,An he nivver stops his din,—He's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape,Nor he's another in.
If he wor mine aw'd thresh him,Wol th' skin coom off his back;Aw'd cure him teein door-snecks,Then givin th' door a whack.Aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' meWi' chalk on th' nessy door,An mak mud pies o' awr front stepsAn leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar.
He's been a trifle quieterFor this last day or two;He's up to some new devilment,—Aw dooant know what he'll do.But here's his father comin,He's lukkin awful sad,—Noa wonder,—aw'st be sad enuffIf aw had sich a lad.
Aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feelSich sorrow, or should grieve,But little Dick is varry sick,They dunnot think he'll live.Aw'd nivver nowt agean him!Aw liked that lad aw'm sure!Pray God, be merciful, an spareThat lad 'at lives next door.
A Summer Shaar.
It nobbut luks like tother day,Sin Jane an me first met;Yet fifty years have rolled away,But still aw dooant forget.Th' Sundy schooil wor ovver,An th' rain wor teemin daanAn shoo had nowt to coverHer Sundy hat an gaan.Aw had an umberella,Quite big enuff for two,Soa aw made bold to tell her,Shoo'd be sewer to get weet throo,Unless shoo'd share it wi' me.Shoo blushed an sed, "Nay, Ben,If they should see me wi' thi,What wod yo're fowk say then?""Ne'er heed," says aw, "Tha need'nt careWhat other fowk may say;Ther's room for me an some to spare,Soa let's start on us way."Shoo tuk mi arm wi' modest grace,We booath felt rayther shy;But then aw'm sewer 'twor noa disgrace,To keep her new clooas dry.Aw tried to tawk on different things,But ivvery thowt aw'd had,Seem'd to ha flown as if they'd wings,An left me speechless mad.But when we gate cloise to her door,Aw stopt an whispered, "Jane,Aw'd like to walk wi' thee some moor,When it doesn't chonce to rain."Shoo smiled an blushed an sed, "For shame!"But aw tuk courage then.Aw cared net if all th' world should blame,Aw meant to pleas misen,For shoo wor th' grandest lass i'th' schooilAn th' best,—noa matter what;—Aw should ha been a sackless fooil,To miss a chonce like that.Soa oft we met to stroll an tawk,Noa matter, rain or shine;An one neet as we tuk a walk,Aw ax't her to be mine.Shoo gave consent, an sooin we wed:—Sin' then we've had full shareOv rough an smooth, yet still we've ledA life ov little care.An monny a time aw say to Jane,If things luk dull an bad;—Cheer up! tha knows we owe to th' rainAll th' joys o' life we've had.
Awr Lad.
Beautiful babby! Beautiful lad!Pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad!Full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;—Two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays;Two little een ov heavenly blue,—Wonderinly starin at ivverything new,Two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,—An planted between em a wee little nooas.A chin wi' a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;—Nivver wor bonnier babby nor this.Two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,—Except when asleep in thy snug little nest.Two little feet 'at are kickin all day,Up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play.Welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars,Soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs.What tha may come to noa mortal can tell;—We hooap an we pray 'at all may be well.We've other young taistrels, one, two an three,But net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee.Sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat,Becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get.Poverty sometimes we have as a guest,But tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best.What are fowks' riches to mother an me?All they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee.Aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe,'At labor an worry wod keep a chap low,—'At love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee,When poverty coom in at th' door,—but aw seeOld fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark,For love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark.Ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild,'At wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child.Then why should we envy his wealth an his lands,Tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands?For we have the treasures noa riches can buy,An aw think we can keep 'em,—at leeast we can try;An if it should pleeas Him who orders all things,To call yo away to rest under His wings,—Tho' to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n,We shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' Heaven,Whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy,Nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy.Blessins on thi! wee thing,—an whativver thi lot,Tha'rt promised a mansion, tho' born in a cot,What fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see,But Christ coom to call just sich childer as thee.An this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan,Tha may yet be a jewel to shine in His craan.
Bonny Mary Ann.
When but a little toddlin thing,I'th' heather sweet shoo'd play,An like a fay on truant wing,Shoo'd rammel far away;An even butterflees wod comeHer lovely face to scan,An th' burds wod sing ther sweetest song,For bonny Mary Ann.
Shoo didn't fade as years flew by,But added day bi day,Some little touch ov witchery,—Some little winnin way.Her lovely limbs an angel face,To paint noa mortal can;Shoo seemed possessed ov ivvery grace,Did bonny Mary Ann.
To win her wod be heaven indeed,Soa off aw went to woo;Mi tale o' love shoo didn't heed,Altho' mi heart spake too.Aw axt, "what wants ta, onnyway?"Shoo sed, "aw want a man,"Then laffin gay, shoo tript away,—Mi bonny Mary Ann.
Thinks aw, well, aw'll be man enoughTo leeav thi to thisen,Some day tha'll net be quite as chuff,Aw'll wait an try thi then.'Twor hard,—it ommost braik mi heartTo carry aght mi plan;But honestly aw played mi part,An lost mi Mary Ann.
For nah shoo's wed an lost yo see,But oh! revenge is sweet;Her husband's less bi th' hawf nor me,His face is like a freet;An what enticed her aw must own,To guess noa mortal can;For what it is, is nobbut known,—To him an Mary Ann.
That Christmas Puddin.
Ha weel aw remember that big Christmas puddin,That puddin mooast famous ov all in a year;When each lad at th' table mud stuff all he could in,An ne'er have a word ov refusal to fear.Ha its raand speckled face, craand wi' sprigs o' green hollySeem'd sweeatin wi' juices ov currans an plums;An its fat cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly,For it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums,That big Christmas pudding,—That rich steamin puddin,—That scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made.
Ther wor father an mother,—awr Hannah an Mary,Uncle Tom an ont Nancy, an smart cussin Jim;An Jim's sister Kitty, as sweet as a fairy,—An Sam wi' his fiddle,—we couldn't spare him.We'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin,Boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind;An fooamin hooam brewed,—why,—aw think we'd enuff in,To sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined.An then we'd that puddin—That thumpin big puddin—That rich Christmas puddin, mi mother had made.
Sam sat next to Mary an Jim tuk awr Hannah,An Kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,—An th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner,'At mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see.They wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended,An all seem'd as happy as happy could be;An aw've nivver repented, for Kitty consented,An shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me.An aw think o' that puddin,—That fateful plum puddin,—That match makkin puddin mi mother had made.
A Bad Sooart.
Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick,Sent flyin at mi heead;Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps,Whearivver they may leead;Aw'd rayther ventur in a den,An stail a lion's cub;Aw'd rayther risk the foamin waveIn an old leaky tub.Aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray,Whear bullets thickest shower;Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,At's th' luck to be i' power.
A redwut brick may miss its mark,A madman change his whim;A lion may forgive a theft;A leaky tub may swim.Bullets may pass yo harmless by,An leeav all safe at last;A thaasand thunders shake the sky,An spare yo when they've past.Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease;Mak poverty yo're friend;But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,Noa mortal can contend.
Ther's malice in his kindest smile,His proffered hand's a snare;He's plannin deepest villany,When seemingly mooast fair.He leads yo on wi' oily tongue,Swears he's yo're fastest friend;He get's yo once within his coils,An crushes yo i'th' end.Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght,An seeks whom to devour;But he's a saint, compared to some,'At's th' luk to be i' power.
Fairly Weel-off.
Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,—Ov drink aw seldom want a gill;Aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm,Should winds be cold or th' sun be warm.
Aw rarely have a sickly spell,—Mi appetite aw'm fain to tellNe'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me,Nowt ivver seems to disagree.
Aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,—Sometimes aw laik a day or two,—Mi wage is nobbut small, but yet,Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.
Mi wife, God bless her! ivvery neetHas slippers warmin for mi feet;An th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid,An th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made.
An th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed,Wi' health an happiness are blest;An th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen,Is th' grandest babby ivver seen.
Aw've friends, tho' humble like misen,They're gradely, upright, workin-men,They're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;—They do what's reight as near's they con.
Aw tak small stock i' politics,For lib'ral shams an tooary tricks,Have made me daat 'em one an all;—Ther words are big, but deeds are small.
Aw goa to th' chapil, yet confessAw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less,For th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa,Ne'er seem in onny haste to goa.
To me, religion seems quite plain;—Aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain,Aw do a kind act when aw can,An hooap to dee an honest man.
Aw hooap to live till old an gray,An when th' time comes to goa away,Aw feel convinced some place ther'll be,Just fit for sich a chap as me.
Green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars,Are treasures we can all call awrs,An when hooam is earth's fairest spotOne should be thankful for his lot.
Aw'm nooan contented,—nay, net aw!Aw nivver con be tho' aw try;But aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have,An if aw for moor blessins crave,It's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns,To spare them my life's ups an daans.
Well, yo may laff, an sneerin say,Aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;—Maybe aw am,—but yo'll agree,Ther's few fowk better off nor me.
A Warnin.
A'a dear, what it is to be big!To be big i' one's own estimation,To think if we shake a lawse leg,'At th' world feels a tremblin sensation.To fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill,Wod be empty if we worn't in it,'At th' universe wheels wod stand still,If we should neglect things a minnit.
To be able to tell all we meet,Just what they should do or leeav undone;To be crammed full o' wisdom an wit,Like a college professor throo Lundun.To show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,—To show whear philosifers blunder;To prove parsons an doctors all quacks,An strike men o' science wi' wonder.
But aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men,'At strut along th' streets like a bantam,Nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen,For they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em.At ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in,Yo may find 'em booath humble an civil,Wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din,Bi yellin an raisin the devil.
A'a dear, what it is to be big!But a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it,For th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig,An a thaasand to one doesn't know it.Consait, aw have often heeard say,Is war for a chap nor consumption,An aw'll back a plain chap onny day,To succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun.
My advice to young fowk is to tryTo grow honestly better an wiser;An yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,—True merit's its own advertiser.False colors yo'll seldom find fast,An a mak-believe is but a bubble,It's sure to get brussen at last,An contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble.
To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester.Born at Hull, November, 1806. Died at Beeston, near Nottingham,March 13th, 1892.
Wallett, old friend! Thy way's been long;—Few livin can luk farther back;But tha has left, bi jest an song,A sunny gleam along thy track.Aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns,Yet aw remember when a lad,Sittin an listnin to thy yarns,An thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had.
Full monny a lesson, quaintly towt,Wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still;Nor can aw call to mind ther's owtTha sed or did, to work me ill!Noa laff tha raised do aw regret,—Wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan,Which had aw heeded, aw admit,Aw should ha been a better man.
Aw'd like to meet thee once agean,An clink awr glasses as of yore,An hear thi rail at all things meean,An praise an cheer the honest poor.Aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld,'At nobbut tha knows ha to tell;—Unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;—A'a dear! Aw'm growin owd misel.
We'st miss thee, Wallett, when tha goas,(May that sad time be far away;For when tha doffs thi motley clooas,An pays that debt we all mun pay,)We'st feel ther's one link less to bind,Us to this 'vain an fleetin show,'An we'st net tarry long behind,—We may goa furst for owt we know.
Well,—if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,—Noa moor enjoy thy social chat,—Aw send thi from this distant land,True friendship's greetin,—This is that.May ivvery comfort earth can give,Be thine henceforward to the end,An tho' the sea divides, believeTher's one who's proud to call thee friend.
Lads an Lasses.
Lads an lasses lend yor earsUnto an old man's rhyme,Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers,It's all a waste o' time.Some little wisdom yo may gain,Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget:Soa blame me net for spaikin plain,Yo'll find it's better net.
For yo, life's journey may be long,Or it may end to-day;Deeath gethers in the young an strong,Along wi' th' old an gray.Then nivver do an unkind thing,Which yo will sure regret,Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,—Yo'll find it's better net.
If yo've a duty to get throo,Goa at it with a will,Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do,That mak's it harder still.Dooant think to-morn is time enuffFor what to-day is set,Nor trust to others for ther help,Yo'll find it's better net.
If little wealth falls to yor share,Try nivver to repine;But struggle on wi' thrift an' care,—Some day the sun will shine.It's better to be livin poor,Than running into debt,An bavin duns coom to yor door;—Yo'll find it's better net.
When tempted bi some jolly friend,To join him in a spree,Remember sich things sometimes endI' pain an misery.Be firm an let temptations passAs if they'd ne'er been met,An nivver drain the sparklin glass;—Yo'll find it's better net.
Mak trewth an honesty yor guide,Tho' some may laff an rail,Fear net, whativver ills betide,At last yo must prevail.Contented wi' yor portion beNor let yor heart be set,On things below 'at fade an dee,—Yo'll find it's better net.
A New Year's Gift.
A little lad,—bare wor his feet,His 'een wor swell'd an red,Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,—A cold doorstep his bed.His little curls wor drippin weet,His clooas wor thin an old,His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,—His limbs wor numb wi' cold.
Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,An snowflakes whirled abaat,—It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,For poor souls to be aght.'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,Could shine throo sich a storm;—Unless some succour turns up sooin,God help that freezin form!
A carriage stops at th' varry haase,—A sarvent oppens th' door;A lady wi' a pale sad face,Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.Her 'een fell on that huddled form,Shoo gives a startled cry;Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,To whear its warm an dry.
Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,An monny a tear shoo shed;For shoo'd once had a darlin ladBut he, alas! wor dead.This little waif seemed sent to cheer,An fill her darlin's place;An to her heart shoo prest him near,An kissed his little face.
Matty's Reason.
"Nah, Matty! what meeans all this fuss?Tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be;Ther must be some reason, becossIt used to be diff'rent wi' thee.
Aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoorIf aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain;Ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer,Tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein.
If tha's met wi' a hansomer chap,Aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way;But tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,—If tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay.
But tha knows 'at for monny a wickAw've been savin mi brass to get wed;An aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pickAght some chairs an a table an bed.
Aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart;An tha seemed to be fain to ha booath;But if its thi wish we should part,To beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath.
An th' warst wish aw wish even yet,—Is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;—Gooid neet, Matty lass, nivver freeat,Tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean."
"Nah, Jimmy lad, try to be cooil,—Mi excuse tha may think is a funny en;Aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil,But thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion."Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat,Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet,Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aghtWi' cold an wind an weet.Then tenderly shoo tuckt him inA little cosy bed,An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin,An stroked his curly head.
Noa owner coom to claim her prize,Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod,It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skiesA New Year's gift throo God.An happiness nah fills her heart,'At wor wi' sorrow cleft;Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part,Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.A New Year's Gift.
A little lad,—bare wor his feet,His 'een wor swell'd an red,Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,—A cold doorstep his bed.His little curls wor drippin weet,His clooas wor thin an old,His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,—His limbs wor numb wi' cold.
Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,An snowflakes whirled abaat,—It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,For poor souls to be aght.'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,Could shine throo sich a storm;—Unless some succour turns up sooin,God help that freezin form!
A carriage stops at th' varry haase,—A sarvent oppens th' door;A lady wi' a pale sad face,Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.Her 'een fell on that huddled form,Shoo gives a startled cry;Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,To whear its warm an dry.
Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,An monny a tear shoo shed;For shoo'd once had a darlin ladBut he, alas! wor dead.This little waif seemed sent to cheer,An fill her darlin's place;An to her heart shoo prest him near,An kissed his little face.
Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat,Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet,Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aghtWi' cold an wind an weet.Then tenderly shoo tuckt him inA little cosy bed,An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin,An stroked his curly head.
Noa owner coom to claim her prize,Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod,It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skiesA New Year's gift throo God.An happiness nah fills her heart,'At wor wi' sorrow cleft;Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part,Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.
Uncle Ben.
A gradely chap wor uncle BenAs ivver lived i'th' 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 clooasHe'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 singThroo braik o' day till neet;His conscience nivver felt a sting,For he did the thing 'at's reet.
He wod'nt swap his humble stateWi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land;He nivver wanted silver plate,Nor owt 'at's rich an grand;He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silkDrawn 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 faceWhen he heeard ther patterin feet,For he loved to laik wi th' little bairnsAn he did the thing 'at's reet.