He nivver turned poor fowk awayUncared for throo his door;He ne'er forgate ther wor a dayWhen he hissen wor poor;An monny a face has turned to Heaven,All glistenin wi' weet,An prayed for blessins on owd Ben,For he did the thing 'at's reet.
He knew his lease wor ommost spent,He'd sooin be called away;Yet he wor happy an content,An waited th' comin day.But one dark neet he shut his e'en,An slept soa calm an sweet,When mornin coom, th' world held one less,'At did the thing 'at's reet.
A Hawporth.
Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam?What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb?Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face;Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place.What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name;Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame.Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice,Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice.Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can;Thear,—tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.
He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat,An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what;But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:—A'a!—its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.
Th' Better Part.
A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait,Wi' body bent, an snowy pate,Aw met one day;—An daan o'th' rooad side grassy banksHe sat to rest his weary shanks;An aw, to while away mi time,O'th' neighbourin hillock did recline,An bade "gooid day."
Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true,If in your heart yo nivver rueTh' time 'at's past?Does envy nivver fill yor breastWhen passin fowk wi' riches blest?An do yo nivver think it wrangAt yo should have to trudge along,Soa poor to th' last?"
"Young man," he sed, "aw envy nooan;But ther are times aw pity some,Wi' all mi heart;To see what trubbl'd lives they spend,What cares upon their hands depend;Then aw in thowtfulness declare'At 'little cattle little care'Is th' better part.
Gold is a burden hard to carry,An tho' Dame Fortun has been charyO' gifts to me;Yet still aw strive to feel content,An think what is, for th' best is meant;An th' mooast ov all aw strive for here,Is still to keep mi conscience clear,From dark spots free.
An while some tax ther brains to findWhat they'll be foorced to leeav behind,When th' time shall come;Aw try bi honest word an deed,To get what little here aw need,An live i' hopes at last to say,When breeath gooas flickerin away,'Aw'm gooin hooam.'"
Aw gave his hand a hearty shake,It seem'd as tho' the words he spakeSank i' mi heart:Aw walk'd away a wiser man,Detarmined aw wod try his planI' hopes at last 'at aw might beAs weel assured ov Heaven as he;That's th' better part.
Th' Lesser Evil.
Young Harry wor a single chap,An wod have lots o' tin,An monny a lass had set her cap,This temptin prize to win.But Harry didn't want a wife,He'd rayther far be free;An soa escape all care an strife'At wedded couples see.But when at last his uncle deed,An left him all his brass,'Twor on condition he should wed,Some honest Yorksher lass.Soa all his dreamin day an neetAbaat what sprees he'd have;He had to bury aght o'th' seet,Deep in his uncle's grave.To tak a wife at once, he thowtWor th' wisest thing to do,Soa he lukt raand until he browtHis choice daan between two.One wor a big, fine, strappin lass,Her name wor Sarah Ann,Her height an weight, few could surpass,Shoo'r fit for onny man.An t'other wor a little sprite,Wi' lots o' bonny ways,An little funny antics, likeA kitten when it plays.An which to tak he could'nt tell,He rayther liked 'em booath;But if he could ha pleased hissen,To wed one he'd be looath.A wife he thowt an evil thing,An sewer to prove a pest;Soa after sometime studyinHe thowt th' least wod be th' best.They sooin wor wed, an then he faandHe'd quite enuff to do,For A'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand,An tongue enuff for two.An if he went aght neet or day,His wife shoo went as weel;He gat noa chonce to goa astray;—Shoo kept him true as steel.His face grew white, his heead grew bald,His clooas hung on his rig,He grew like one 'at's getten stall'd,Ov this world's whirligig.One day, he muttered to hissen,"If aw've pickt th' lesser evil,Th' poor chap 'at tackles Sarah Ann,Will wish he'd wed the D—-l."
Take Heart!
Roughest roads, we often find,Lead us on to th' nicest places;Kindest hearts oft hide behindSome o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.
Flaars whose colors breetest are,Oft delight awr wond'ring seet;But ther's others, humbler far,Smell a thaasand times as sweet.
Burds o' monny color'd feather,Please us as they skim along,But ther charms all put together,Connot equal th' skylark's song.
Bonny women—angels seemin,—Set awr hearts an brains o' fire;But its net ther beauties; beamin,Its ther gooidness we admire.
Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle,Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray;He best proves his might an' mettle,Who remains to win the day.
Monkey's an vain magpies chatter,But it doesn't prove 'em wise;An it's net wi noise an clatter,Men o' sense expect to rise.
'Tis'nt them 'at promise freely,Are mooast ready to fulfill;An 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely'At are last at top o'th' hill.
Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment,Gaudy flaars awr e'en beguile;Women may be loved for raiment,Show may blind us for a while;
But we sooin grow discontented,An for solid worth we sigh,An we leearn to prize the jewel,Tho' it's hidden from the eye.
Him 'at thinks to gether diamondsAs he walks along his rooad,Nivver need be tired wi' huggin,For he'll have a little looad.
Owt 'at's worth a body's winninMun be toiled for long an hard;An tho' th' struggle may be pinnin,Perseverance wins reward.
Earnest thowt, an constant strivin,Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet;Tho' we may be late arrivin,Yet at last we'st come in reet.
He who WILL succeed, he MUST,When he's bid false hopes farewell,If he firmly fix his trustIn his God, and in hissel.
They all do it.
They're all buildin nests for thersen,One bi one they goa fleetin away;A suitable mate comes,—an then,I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay.Well,—it's folly for th' old en's to freeat,Tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,—An we sigh,—let a tear drop,—an yet,We bless 'em, an give 'em a start.
They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt,They've trubbles an trials to face;I'th' futer they luk an see nowt'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race.Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they thinkSorrow's claads have noa shadow for them,They walk on uncertainty's brink,An they see in each teardrop a gem.
Happy dreams 'at they had long ago,Too sweet to believe—-could be true,Are realized nah, forthey knowTh' world's pleasures wor made for them two.Weknow'at it's all a mistak,An we pity, an yet we can pray,'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk backWi' regret to that sweet weddin day.
God bless 'em! may happiness dwell,I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot;An if in a palace,—well,—well,—Shall ther young love be ever forgot.Nay,—nay,—tho' old Time runs his plough,O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove;May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow,Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.
Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en!Bless th' husband, who does weel his part;Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been,The joy an the pride ov ther heart.May health an prosperity sitAt ther table soa long as they live!An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ,For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.
To Let.
Aw live in a snug little cot,An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt,Cloise by, in a big garden plot,Stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let."
Twelve month sin or somewhear abaat,A fine lukkin chap donned i' black,Coom an luk'd at it inside an aghtAn decided this mansion to tak.
Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a droveAn masons, an joiners, an sweeps,An a blacksmith to fit up a cove,An bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps.
Ther wor painters, an glazzeners too,To mend up each bit ov a braik,An a lot 'at had nowt else to do,But to help some o'th t'others to laik.
Ther wor fires i' ivvery range,They nivver let th' harston get cooiled,Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change,An ivverything all in a mooild.
Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall,Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell,But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all;He tells me to do it mysel.
This hall lets for fifty a year,Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay;When th' day come mi rent's allus thear,An that's a gooid thing in its way.
At th' last all th' repairers had done,An th' hall wor as cleean as a pin,Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan,For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.
Then th' furnitur started to come,Waggon looads on it, all spankin new,Rich crimson an gold covered some,Wol some shone i' scarlet an blue.
Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor,An picturs enuff for a show?They fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure,Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.
One day when a cab drove to th' gate,Th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife,(An tawk abaat fashion an state!Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.)
Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in,An aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;"As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in,"A'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass."
Ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs,An grocers, an milkmen, an snips,All seekin for orders an jobs,An sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.
Aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day,"Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike?Each wick aw'm expected to pay,""Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."
Things went on like this, day bi day,For somewhear cloise on for a year;Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way,Altho' aw wor livin soa near.
But one neet when aw'd finished mi wark,An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire,A chap rushes in aght 'o'th' darkThroo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.
Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?"Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?""Them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan,"They've bolted an diddled us cleean."
Aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word,He cursed as he put on his hat,An he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd,An paid nubdy owt, an that's what."
He left, an aw crept off to bed,Next day aw'd a visit throo Ike,But aw shut up his maath when aw sed,"Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."
Ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let,"An aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be;They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet,Tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me.
But aw let 'em do just as they pleease,Aw'm content tho' mi station is low,An awm thankful sich hard times as theaseIf aw manage to pay what aw owe.
This precept, friends, nivver forget,For a wiser one has not been sed,Be detarmined to rise aght o' debtTho' yo go withaat supper to bed.
Lost Love.
Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass,Her e'en as black as sloas;Her hair a flyin thunner claad,Her cheeks a blowin rooas.Her smile coom like a sunny gleamHer cherry lips to curl;Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.
Aw long'd to claim her for mi own,But nah mi love is crost;An aw mun wander on alooan,An mourn for her aw've lost.
Aw could'nt ax her to be mine,Wi' poverty at th' door:Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shineWi' love for one so poor;*/ 92 */But nah ther's summat i' mi breast,Tells me aw miss'd mi way:An lost that lass I loved the bestThroo fear shoo'd say me nay.
Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.
Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn,An oft i'th' dark o'th' neet,Aw've knelt mi daan i'th' loin to findPrints ov her tiny feet.An under th' window, like a thief,Aw've crept to hear her spaik;An then aw've hurried hooam ageanFor fear mi heart wod braik.
Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.
Another bolder nor misen,Has robb'd me o' mi dear;An nah aw ne'er may share her joy,An ne'er may dry her tear.But tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad,An tho' hope's star is set;To know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'dWod mak me happy yet.
Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c.
Drink.
When yo see a chap covered wi' rags,An hardly a shoe to his fooit,Gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags,Wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit;An he tells yo he's aght ov a job,An he feels wellny likely to sink,—An he hasn't a coin in his fob,Yo may guess what he's seekin—it's Drink.
If a woman yo meet, poorly dressed,Untidy, an spoortin black e'en;Wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast,Neglected an shame-to-be-seen;If yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true,What's th' cause of her trouble? Aw think,Yo'll find her misfortuns are dueTo that warst o' all enemies,—Drink.
Ax th' wretches convicted o' crime,What caused 'em to plunge into sin,An they'll say ommost ivvery time,It's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin.Even th' gallus, if it could but tellOv its victims dropt ovver life's brink;It wod add a sad lot moor to swellThe list ov those lost throo strong Drink.
Yet daily we thowtlessly pass,The hell-traps 'at stand like a curse;Bedizened wi' glitter an glass,To mak paupers, an likely do worse.Some say 'at th' millenium's near,But they're reckonin wrang aw should think,When they fancy the King will appear,In a world soa besotted wi' Drink.
Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.)
Th' mooin shone breet wi' silver leet,An th' wind wor softly sighin;Th' burds did sleep, an th' snails did creep,An th' buzzards wor a flying;Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on,An th' buttercups wor weary,When Jenny went to meet her John,Her Rifleman, her dearie.
Her Johnny seemed as brave a ladAs iver held a rifle,An if ther wor owt in him bad,'Twor nobbut just a trifle.He wore a suit o' sooity grey,To show 'at he wor willinTo feight for th' Queen and countryWhen perfect in his drillin.
His heead wor raand, his back wor straight,His legs wor long an steady,His fist wor fully two pund weight,His heart wor true an ready;His upper lip wor graced at th' topWi' mustache strong an bristlin,It railly wor a spicy crop;Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.
His buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war,He long'd for battles' clatter,He grieved to think noa foeman darTo cross that sup o' watter;He owned one spot,—an nobbut one,Within his heart wor tender,An as his darlin had it fun,He'd be her bold defender.
At neet he donn'd his uniform,War trials to endure,An helped his comrades brave, to stormA heap ov horse manure!They said it wor a citidel,Fill'd wi' some hostile power,They boldly made a breach, and wellThey triumph'd in an hour.
They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid,(That spoils one's britches sadly,)But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid,An scented 'em as badly;Ther wor noa slain to hug away,Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin,They lived to feight another day,An spend ther neets i' rantin.
Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loinWhere all wor dark an shaded,Part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slimeBut quickly on he waded;An nah an then he cast his e'eAn luk'd behund his shoulder.He worn't timid, noa net he!He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."
But once he jumped, an sed "Oh dear!"Becoss a beetle past him;But still he wor unknown to fear,He'd tell yo if yo asked him.He could'nt help for whispering once,"This loin's a varry long un,A chap wod have but little chonceWi thieves, if here amang 'em."
An all at once he heeard a voiceCry out, "Stand and deliver!Your money or your life, mak choice,Before your brains I shiver;"He luk'd all raand, but failed to seeA sign of livin craytur,Then tremlin dropt upon his knee,Fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur.
"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak,Mi belts, mi ammunition,Aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi backOh pity mi condition;Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass,Aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin;Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass,At Tate's berry garden."
"Aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where,Its her fault aw've to suffer;"Just then a whisper in his earSaid, "Johnny, thar't a duffer,"He luk'd, an' thear cloise to him stuckWor Jenny, burst wi' lafter;"A'a, John," shoo says, "Aw've tried thi pluck,Aw'st think o' this at after."
"An when tha tells what things tha'll do,An booasts o' manly courage,Aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do,Go hooam an get thi porrige.""Why Jenny wor it thee," he sed,"Aw fancied aw could spy thi,Aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid,Aw did it but to try thi."
"Just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tisAw hear thi heart a beatin,An tak this claat to wipe thi phiz,Gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin.Thar't brave noa daat, an tha can crowLike booastin cock-a-doodle,But nooan sich men for me, aw vow,When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'"
Plenty o' Brass.
A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!It's grand to be able to spendA trifle sometimes on a glassFor yorsen, or sometimes for a friend.To be able to bury yor neiveUp to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd,An, 'baght pinchin, be able to saveA wee bit for th' time when yo're owd.
A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!To be able to set daan yor fooitWithaat ivver thinkin—bi'th' mass!'At yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit.To be able to walk along th' street,An stand at shop windows to stare,An net ha to beat a retreatIf yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air.
A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!To be able to goa hooam at neet,An sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass,An want nawther foir nor leet.To tak th' childer a paper o' spice,Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall;Or a taste ov a summat 'at's niceFor yor friends, if they happen to call.
A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!Then th' parsons'll know where yo live;If yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass,An call where fowk's summat to give.Yo may have a trifle o' sense,An yo may be booath upright an trew,But that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expenseOv a whole or a pairt ov a pew.
A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!An to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard,This world seems as smooth as a glass,An ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad;But him 'at's as poor as a maase,Or, happen, a little i' debt,He mun point his nooas up to th' big haase,An be thankful for what he can get.
A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink!But dooan't let it harden yor heart:Yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should thinkAn try to do gooid wi' a part!An then, as yo're totterin' daan,An th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass,Yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craanWi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.
The New Year's Resolve.
Says Dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed,For th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life,An aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed,If aw knew who to get for a wife.
Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass,For aw've nawther to booast on misel;What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass,An ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.
To be single is all weel enuff nah an then,But it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes;For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men;They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.
An aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done,Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit;An th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run,An mi back warks as if it 'ud split.
Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best;Soa one day aw bethowt me to try,But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast,Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.
Aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me!Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think;Aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see,An saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.
But a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declareAw'll be wed if a wife's to be had;For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare,An thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad.
Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell,Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined,Talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel,Afoor shoo can alter her mind."
A Strange Stooary.
Aw know some fowk will call it crime,To put sich stooaries into ryhme,But yet, contentedly aw chimeMi simple ditty:An if it's all a waste o' time,The moor's the pity.
———-
O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,Wi' reekin heead and weary feet,A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet;He made mi start;But pluckin up, aw did him greetWi' beatin heart.
His dress wor black as black could be,An th' latest fashion aw could see,But yet they hung soa dawderly,Like suits i' shops;Bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten threeSich legs i'th' slops.
Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rayther lateFor one 'at's dress'd i' sich a state,Across this Slack to mak ther gate:Is ther some pairty?Or does ta allus dress that rate—Black duds o'th' wairty?"
He twisted raand as if to seeWhat sooart o' covy aw could be,An grinned wi' sich a maath at me,It threw me sick!"Lor saves!" aw cried, "an is it thee'At's call'd owd Nick?"
But when aw luk'd up into th' place,Whear yo'd expect to find a face;A awful craytur met mi gaze,It took mi puff:"Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass,Aw've seen enuff!"
Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear,He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear,An soa aw stop't a bit to hearWhat things he'd ax;But as he spake his teeth rang clear,Like knick-a-nacks.
"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' theeNet knowin sich a chap as me;For oft when tha's been on a spree,Aw've been thear too;But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee,Tha's just edged throo.
Mi name is Deeath—tha needn't start,An put thi hand upon thi heart,For tha may see 'at aw've noa dartWi' which to strike;Let's sit an tawk afoor we part,O'th edge o'th dyke."
"Nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad,For Bobby Burns tells me tha hadA scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, Gad!Tha worn't dress'dI' fine black clooath; tha wore a pladAcross thi breast!"
"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daatTo find me wanderin abaght;But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaatA job to do;Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat,Mi arrows too."
"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,'At fowk noa moor will ha to dee?""Noa, hark a minnit an tha'll seeWhen th' truth aw tell!Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,Thev kill thersel.
They do it too at sich a rateWol mi owd system's aght o' date;What we call folly, they call fate;An all ther pleasurIs ha to bring ther life's estateTo th' shortest measur.
They waste ther time, an waste ther gains,O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains,Throo morn to neet they keep ther brains,For ivver swimmin,An if a bit o' sense remains,It's fun i'th wimmen.
Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft,Nor yet misen wi' scythe or shaft,E'er made as monny deead or daft,As Gin an Rum,An if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafftAt me, bi gum!
But if they thus goa on to swill,They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill,For give a druffen chap his fill,An sooin off pops he;An teetotal fowk moor surely still,Will dee wi' th' dropsy.
It's a queer thing 'at sich a nationCan't use a bit o' moderation;But one lot rush to ther damnationThroo love o'th' bottle:Wol others think to win salvationWi' bein teetotal."
Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead,"Tak my advice, young chap," he sed,"Let liquors be, sup ale asteead,An tha'll be better,An dunnot treat th' advice tha's heardLike a deead letter."
"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say,Yo come to fotch us chaps away!But this seems strange, soa tell me pray,Ha wor't yo coom?Wor it to tell us keep away,Yo hav'nt room?"
"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha darBut tha'll find spirits worse bi farSarved aght i' monny a public bar,'At's thowt quite lawful;Nor what tha'll find i'th' places parsons call soa awful."
"Gooid bye!" he sed, an off he shot,Leavin behind him sich a lotO' smook, as blue as it wor hot!It set me stewin!Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a potOv us own brewin.
————-
If when yo've read this stooary throo,Yo daat if it's exactly true,Yo'll nobbut do as others do,Yo may depend on't.Blow me! aw ommost daat it too,So thear's an end on't.
What Wor it?
What wor it made me love thee, lass?Aw connot tell;Aw know it worn't for thi brass;—Tho' poor miselAw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt,An whatawhad wor next to nowt.
Aw didn't love thi 'coss thi faceWor fair to see:For tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place,An as for me,They called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop,"An sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop.
Aw used to read i' Fairy booksOv e'en soa breet,Ov gowden hair, angelic looks,An smiles soa sweet;Aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown,Aw'd claim some lovely Fairy for mi own.
An weel aw recollect that neet,—'Twor th' furst o'th' year,Aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet,An aw'd a fearLest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat,An be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat.
What fun they made, when we went in;—They cried, "Yo're catched!"An then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din"They're fairly matched,An beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say,An they've booath been gooid childer, onyway."
An then aw saw a little tear,Unbidden flow,That settled it!—for then an thearAw seemed to know,'At we wor meant to share each others lot,An Fancy's Fairies all could goa to pot.
Full thirty years have rolled away,Sin that rough time;What won mi love aw connot say,But this is mine,To know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee,But pray, whativver made thee fancy me?
Billy Bumble's Bargain.
Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig,Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say;An monny a mile he had to trigOne sweltin' summer day;But Billy didn't care a fig,He sed he'd mak it pay;Heknewit wor a bargain,An he cared net who said nay.
He browt it hooam to Ploo Croft loin,But what wor his surpriseTo find all th' neighbors standing aght,We oppen maaths an eyes;"By gow!" sed Billy, to hissen,"This pigmustbe a prize!"An th' wimmen cried, "Gooid gracious fowkBut isn't it a size?"
Then th' chaps sed, "Billy, where's ta been?Whativver has ta browt?That surely isn't crayture, lad,Aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt?It luks moor like a donkey,Does ta think 'at it con rawt?"But Billy crack'd his carter's whip.An answered 'em wi' nowt.
An reight enuff it wor a pig,If all they say is true,Its length wor five foot eight or nine,Its height wor four foot two;An when it coom to th' pig hoil door,He couldn't get it throo,Unless it went daan ov its knees,An that it wodn't do.
Then Billy's mother coom to help,An hit it wi' a mop;But thear it wor, an thear it seem'dDetarmined it 'ud stop;But all at once it gave a grunt,An oppen'd sich a shop;An finding aght 'at it wor lick'd,It laup'd cleean ovver th' top.
His mother then shoo shook her heead,An pool'd a woeful face;"William," shoo sed, "tha should'nt bringSich things as theas to th' place.Aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sinkThi mother i' disgrace;But if tha buys sich things as theaseAw'm feared it will be th' case!"
"Nah, mother, nivver freat," sed Bill,"Its one aw'm gooin to feed,Its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know,But that's becoss o'th' breed;If its a trifle long i'th' grooin,Why hang it! nivver heed!Aw know its net a beauty,But its cheap, it is, indeed!"
"Well time 'ul try," his mother sed,—An time at last did try;For nivver sich a hungry beeastHad been fed in a sty."What's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, Billy!"Wor th' neighbors' daily cry;"Aw connot tell yo yet," sed Bill,"Aw'll weigh it bye an bye."
An hard poor Billy persevered,But all to noa avail,It swallow'd all th' mait it could get,An wod ha swallow'd th' pail;But Billy tuk gooid care to standO'th' tother side o'th' rail;But fat it didn't gain as michAs what 'ud greeas its tail.
Pack after pack o' mail he bowt,Until he'd bowt fourteen;But net a bit o' differenceI'th' pig wor to be seen:Its legs an snowt wor just as longAs ivver they had been;Poor Billy caanted rib bi ribAn heaved a sigh between.
One day he mix'd a double feed,An put it into th' troff;"Tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed,"Aw'll awther stawl thee off,Or else aw'll brust thi hide—that isUnless 'at its to toff!"An then he left it wol he wentHis mucky clooas to doff.
It worn't long befoor he coomTo see hah matters stood;He luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor,Five simple bits o' wood,As cleean scraped aght as if it hadNe'er held a bit o' food;"Tha slotch!" sed Bill, "aw do believeTha'd ait me if tha could."
Next day he browt a butcher,For his patience had been tried,An wi a varry deeal to do,Its legs wi' rooap they tied;An then his shinin knife he drewAn stuck it in its side—It mud ha been a crockadile,Bi th' thickness ov its hide.
But blooid began to flow, an thenIts long legg'd race wor run;They scalded, scraped, an hung it up,An when it all wor done,Fowk coom to guess what weight it wor,An monny a bit o' funThey had, for Billy's mother sed,"It ought to weigh a ton."
Billy wor walkin up an daan,Dooin nowt but fume an fidge!He luk'd at th' pig—then daan he set,I'th nook o'th' window ledge,He saw th' back booan wor stickin aght,Like th' thin end ov a wedge;It luk'd like an owd blanketHung ovver th' winterhedge.
His mother rooar'd an th' wimmen sigh'd,But th' chaps did nowt but laff;Poor Billy he could hardly bide,To sit an hear ther chaff—Then up he jumped, an off he run,But whear fowk nivver knew;An what wor th' war'st, when mornin coom,Th' deead pig had mizzled too.
Th' chaps wander'd th' country far an near,Until they stall'd thersen;But nawther Billy nor his pigCoom hooam agean sin then;But oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet,Near Shibden's ruined mill,The gooast o' Billy an his pigMay be seen runnin still.
Yo fowk 'at's tempted to goa buyBe careful what yo do;Dooant be persuaded 'coss "it'scheap,"For if yo do yo'll rue;Dooant think its lowerin to yor senTo ax a friend's advice,Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may beBowt dear at onny price.
Aght o' Wark.
Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,An aw can't get a day's wark to do!Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sickAn aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.
Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam,An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,For they think it's high time aw should come,An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.
A'a dear! it's a pitiful caseWhen th' cubbord is empty an bare;When want's stamped o' ivvery face,An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.
Today as aw walked into th' street,Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet,For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.
Them horses, aw knew varry weel,Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,Had nivver known th' want of a meal,Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.
Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare,Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;But ther maisters forget they should careFor a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.
They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet,An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar,An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet,But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.
I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;An unless we can get it o'th' strap,We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.
But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogsTo them three little lambs an ther dam;—Aw wish they wor horses or dogs,For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.
But they say ther is One 'at can see,An has promised to guide us safe throo;Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee,He'll find a chap summat to do.
That's a Fact.
"A'a Mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee!Aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure;—Aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see,Aw wor nivver i' this way afoor.Aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo;Aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm,An' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too—Tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form.Aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght—But promise tha'll keep it reight squat;For aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght,But aw can't keep it in—tha knows that.We'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet,An Jimmy wor thear,—tha's seen Jim?An he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit,To ax me for th' number o'th' hymn;Aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick,For he heeard it geen aght th' same as me;An he just did th' same thing tother wick,—It made fowk tak nooatice, dos't see.An when aw wor gooin towards hooam,Aw heeard som'dy comin behund:'Twor pitch dark, an aw thowt if they coom,Aw should varry near sink into th' graund.Aw knew it wor Jim bi his traid,An aw tried to get aght ov his gate;But a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid,Aw wor nivver i' sich en a state.Then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl,An aw said, "nah, leeav loise or aw'll screeam!Can't ta let daycent lasses alooan,Consarn thi up! what does ta mean?"But he stuck to mi arm like a leach,An he whispered a word i' mi ear;It tuk booath mi breeath an mi speech,For aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear.Then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel,An he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth:Aw says, "Jimmy, forshame o' thisel!"As sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath.But he wod'nt be quiet, for he sed'At he'd loved me soa true an soa long—Aw'd ha geen a ear off o' my ye'dTo get loise—but tha knows he's soa strong.—Then he tell'd me he wanted a wife,An he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;—Aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life,Aw wor fesen'd whativver to say;'Coss tha knows aw've a likin for Jim;But yo can't allus say what yo meean;For aw tremb'ld i' ivvery limb,Wol he kussed me agean an agean.But at last aw began to give way,For, raylee, he made sich a fuss,An aw kussed him an all—for they say,Ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss.Then he left me at th' end o' awr street,An aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo;But if aw should see him to neet,What wod ta advise me to do?But dooant spaik a word—tha's noa need,For aw've made up mi mind ha to act,For he's th' grandest lad ivver aw seed,An aw like him th' best too—that's a fact!"
Babby Burds.
Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn,Across a meadow newly shorn;Th' sun wor shinin breet and clear,An fragrant scents rose up i'th' air,An all wor still.When, as my steps wor idly rovin,Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin!It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin,As daan aw sank beside it, kneelinO'th' edge o'th' hill.
It wor a little skylark's nest,An two young babby burds, undrest,Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide,Callin for mammy to provideTher mornin's meal;An high aboon ther little hooam,Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom;Ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear,Like breathins throo a purer sphere,He sang soa weel.
Ther mammy, a few yards away,Wor hoppin on a bit o' hay;Too feeard to coom, too bold to flee;An watchin me wi' troubled e'e,Shoo seem'd to say:"Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man!Ther daddy does the best he canTo cheer yo with his sweetest song;An thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long,Soa let 'em stay."
"Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm—Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm!For aw've a little nest misel,An two young babs, aw'm praad to tell,'At's precious too;An they've a mammy watching thear,'At howds them little ens as dear,An dearer still, if that can be,Nor what thease youngens are to thee,Soa come,—nah do!
"A'a well!—tha'rt shy, tha hops away,—Tha doesn't trust a word aw say;Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder,An aw confess aw dunnot wonder—But tha's noa need;Aw'll leave yo to yorsels,—gooid bye!For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh;He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong;He loves yo better nor his song—He does indeed."
Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi earCaught up the saand o' warblin clear;Thinks aw, they're happy once agean;Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meeanTo rob that nest;For they're contented wi' ther lot,Nor envied me mi little cot;An in this world, as we goa throo,It is'nt mich gooid we can do,An do awr best.
Then let us do as little wrongTo onny as we pass along,An never seek a joy to gain'At's purchased wi' another's pain,It isn't reet.Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart,To mend awr Johnny's little cart:(He allus finds me wark enuffTo piecen up his brocken stuff,For ivvery neet.)
An Sally—a'a! if yo could see her!When aw sit daan to get mi teah,Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee,An maks me sing it "Hush a bee,"I'th' rocking chear;Then begs some sugar for it too;What it can't ait shoo tries to do;An turnin up her cunnin e'e,Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see,It gets its share."
Sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear!Then starts a little tremblin tear,'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dewSwimmin within a wild flaar blue,Falls fro ther e'e;But as the sun in April shaarsRevives the little droopin flaars,A kind word brings ther sweet smile back:Aw raylee think mi brain ud crackIf they'd ta dee.
Then if aw love my bairns soa weel,May net a skylark's bosom feelAs mich consarn for th' little things'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wingsSoa weel affoards?If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mindHow mich is gained by bein kind;Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell,An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mellEven o'th' burds.
Queen ov Skircoit Green.
Have yo seen mi bonny Mary,Shoo lives at Skircoit Green;An old fowk say a fairer lassNor her wor nivver seen.An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar,'At's bloomin thear to-day;An one an all are scared to deeath,Lest shoo should flee away.
Shoo's health an strength an beauty too,Shoo's grace an style as weel:An what's moor precious far nor all,Her heart is true as steel.Shoo's full ov tenderness an love,For onny in distress;Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove,Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.
Her fayther's growin old an gray,Her mother's wellny done;But in ther child they find a stay,As life's sands quickly run.Her smilin face like sunshine comes,To chase away ther cares,An peeace an comfort allus dwells,In that dear hooam ov theirs.
Each Sundy morn shoo's off to schooil,To taich her Bible class;An meets a smilin welcome,From ivvery lad an lass;An when they sing some old psalm tune,Her voice rings sweet an clear,It saands as if an angel's tongue,Had joined in worship thear.
Aw sometimes see her safely hooam,An oft aw've tried to tell,That precious saycret ov a hooap'At in mi heart does dwell.But when aw've seen the childlike trust,'At glances throo her e'e,To spaik ov love aw nivver durst;—Shoo's far too gooid for me.
But to grow worthy ov her love,Is what aw meean to try;An time may my affection prove,—An win her bye-an-bye.Then aw shall be the happiest chap'At Yorksher's ivver seen,An some fine day aw'll bear away,The Queen ov Skircoit Green.
Th' Little Black Hand.
Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen,An it may be poetical fire:An suppoase 'at it is'nt—what then?Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?
Aw'm detarmined to scribble away—Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;An tho' aw turn neet into day,If aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed!
Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;But then ther's abundance o' care,An them 'at's contented wi' strifeMay allus mak sure o' ther share.
But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,—Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk;An if butter be aght o' mi raik,Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.
It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass,Aw con thoil 'em whativver they get.
But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street,An aw see fowk hawf-clam'd, an i' rags,Wi' noa bed to lig daan on at neetBut i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;
Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut knewWhat ther brothers i' poverty feel,They'd a trifle moor charity show,An help 'em sometimes to a meal.
But we're all far too fond of ussen,To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet;An we leeav to ther fate sich as them'At's noa bed nor noa supper at neet.
But ther's monny a honest heart throbs,Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains,'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs,'At booasts better blooid in his veins.
See that child thear! 'at's workin away,An sweepin that crossin i'th' street:He's been thear ivver sin it coom day,An yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.
See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by,An ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom!What care they tho' he smothered a sigh,Or wiped off a tear as they coom?
But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart!He's gien th' poor child summat at last:Ha his e'en seem to twinkle an start,As he watches th' kind gentleman past!
An thear in his little black handHe sees a gold sovereign shine!He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand,An he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"
An all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee,An tell him to cut aght o'th seet;But he clutches it fast,—an nah seeHa he's threedin his way along th' street.
Till he comes to that varry same man,An he touches him gently o'th' back,An he tells him as weel as he can,'At he fancies he's made a mistak.
An th' chap luks at that poor honest lad,With his little nak'd feet, as he stands,An his heart oppens wide—he's soa gladWoll he taks one o'th little black hands,
An he begs him to tell him his name:But th' child glances timidly raand—Poor craytur! he connot forshameTo lift up his e'en off o'th graand.
But at last he finds courage to spaik,An he tells him they call him poor Joa;'At his mother is sickly an' waik;An his father went deead long ago;
An he's th' only one able to workAght o' four; an he does what he can,Throo early at morn till it's dark:An he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.
An he tells him his mother's last word,As he starts for his labor for th' day,Is to put all his trust in the Lord,An He'll net send him empty away.—
See that man! nah he's wipin his e'en,An he gives him that bright piece o' gowd;An th' lad sees i' that image o'th QueenWhat'll keep his poor mother throo th' cowd.
An monny a time too, after then,Did that gentleman tak up his standAt that crossing an watch for hissenThe work ov that little black hand.
An when years had gooan by, he expressed'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had,An all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best'At wor towt by that poor little lad.
Tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate,An booast o' ther riches and land,Some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rateTo that lad with his little black hand.
My Native Twang.
They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap,An ow't to goa to th' schooilTo leearn to talk like other fowk,An net be sich a fooil;But aw've a noashun, do yo see,Although it may be wrang,The sweetest music is to me,Mi own, mi native twang.
An when away throo all mi friends,I' other taans aw rooam,Aw find ther's nowt con mak amendsFor what aw've left at hooam;But as aw hurry throo ther streetsNoa matter tho aw'm thrang,Ha welcome if mi ear but greetsMi own, mi native twang.
Why some despise it, aw can't tell,It's plain to understand;An sure aw am it saands as weel,Tho' happen net soa grand.Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged,They call that vulgar slang;But if aw tell 'em they're engaged,That's net mi native twang.
Mi father, tho' he may be poor,Aw'm net ashamed o' him;Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf,An tho' her e'en are dim;Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walkIts crucken'd streets amang;For thear it is aw hear fowk tawkMi own, mi native twang.
Aw like to hear hard-workin fowkSay boldly what they meean;For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck,May be ther hearts are cleean.An them 'at country fowk despise,Aw say, "Why, let 'em hang;"They'll nivver rob mi sympathiesThroo thee, mi native twang.
Aw like to see grand ladies,When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine;Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'enThroo th' carriage winders shine;Mi mother wor a woman,An tho' it may be wrang,Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them'At tawk mi native twang.
Aw wish gooid luck to ivvery one;Gooid luck to them 'ats brass;Gooid luck an better times to comeTo them 'ats poor—alas!An may health, wealth, an sweet contentFor ivver dwell amangTrue, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,'At tawk mi native twang.
Sing On.
Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on;Aw connot sing;A claad hings ovver me, do what aw conFresh troubles spring.Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away,Aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day.
Mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine,But nah it's sad;Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine,Sich faith aw had;—But he who promised aw should be his wifeHas robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life.
Sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song;Yet, when aw hearThi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong,Aw feel a tearRoll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief,A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.
This little darlin, cuddled to mi breast,It little knows,When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest,'At all mi woesAre smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braikBut just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.
Sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to seeThat faithless swain,Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery,Strike up thy strain,An if his heart yet answers to thy trillFly back to me, an we will love him still.
But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feelAll hope is o'er,An he that aw believed an loved soa weelBe loved noa more;For that hard heart, bird music cannot move,Is far too cold a dwellin-place for love.
Shoo's thi Sister. (Written on seeing a wealthy Townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)
Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;On her feet ther's monny a blister:See ha painfully shoo dragsHer tired limbs to some quiet corner:Shoo's thi sister—dunnot scorn her.
Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;Used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin—Shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor;Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,Still shoo's human—tha'rt her brother.
Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,A kid glove o' awther hand,Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin—Shoo's thi sister, understand:Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,Poor lost pilgrim!—but what matters?
Luk ha sharp her elbow's growin,An ha pale her little face;An her hair neglected, showinHer's has been a sorry case;O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,When tha shov'd her into th' street.
Ther wor once a "Man," mich greaterNor thisen wi' all thi brass;Him, awr blessed Mediator,—Wod He scorn that little lass?Noa, He called 'em, an He blessed 'em,An His hands divine caress'd 'em.
Goa thi ways! an if tha bears netSome regret for what tha's done,If tha con pass on, an cares netFor that sufferin little one;Then ha'ivver poor shoo be,Yet shoo's rich compared wi' thee.
Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us,To awr duties here below!For we're forced to leeav behind usAll awr pomp, an all awr show;Why then should we slight another?Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.
Another Babby.
Another!—well, my bonny lad,Aw wodn't send thee back;Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam,Tha's fun some in a crack.
It maks me feel as pleased as punchTo see thi pratty face;Ther's net another child i'th' bunchMoor welcome to a place.
Aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee,I' some nook o' mi cage;But if another comes, raylee!Aw'st want a bigger wage.
But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want—We'll try to pool thee throo,For Him who has mi laddie sent,He'll send his baggin too.
He hears the little sparrows chirp,An answers th' raven's call;He'll nivver see one want for owt,'At's worth aboon 'em all.
But if one on us mun goa short,(Altho' it's hard to pine,)Thy little belly shall be fill'dWhativver comes o' mine.
A chap con nobbut do his best,An that aw'll do for thee,Leavin to providence all th' rest,An we'st get help'd, tha'll see.
An if thi lot's as bright an fairAs aw could wish it, lad,Tha'll come in for a better shareNor ivver blessed thi dad.
Aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt,If, when deeath comes, aw findAw leeav some virtuous lassesAn some honest lads behind.
An tho' noa coat ov arms may graceFor me, a sculptor'd stooan,Aw hooap to leeav a noble race,Wi' arms o' flesh an booan.
Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black,Wi' health, we'll persevere,An try to find a brighter track—We'll conquer, nivver fear!
An may God shield thee wi' his wing,Along life's stormy way,An keep thi heart as free throo sin,As what it is to-day.
To a Roadside Flower.
Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclinedTo tak thee wi' me:But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind,Tha'd ne'er forgie me;For i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee,An life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee.
Here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish,Whear scoors may pass thee;Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherishMay stop an bless thee:Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty!Sent here to bless: Smile on—tha does thi duty.
Aw wodn't rob another of a joySich as tha's gien me;For aw felt varry sad, mi little doyUntil aw'd seen thee.An may each passin, careworn, lowly brother,Feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another.
An Old Man's Christmas Morning.
Its a long time sin thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,—Soa pull up thi cheer, an sit daan,for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee:Thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,—yet mi heart feels glad,To see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek,an a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e.
Thi limbs seem to totter an shake, like a crazy owd fence,'At th' wind maks to tremel an creak;but tha still fills thi place;An it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense,'At i' spite o' thi years an thi cares,tha still wears a smile o' thi face.
Come fill up thi pipe—for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,—An tha'll find a drop o' hooam-brew'di' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say;An nah, wol tha'rt tooastin thi shins,just scale th' foir, an aw'll side thi owd stick,Then aw'll tell thi some things'at's happen'd sin tha went away.
An first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd,For trials an troubles have come,an mi heart has felt well nigh to braik;An mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride,an mi fortuns has shared,Shoo bent under her griefs, an shoo's flown far,far away aght o' ther raik.
My life's like an owd gate 'at's nobbut one hinge for support,An sometimes aw wish—aw'm soa lonely—at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust;But it hasn't to be, for it seems Life maks me his spooart,An Deeath cannot even spare time,to turn sich an owd man into dust.
Last neet as aw sat an watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire,As it crackled, an sparkled, an flared up wi sich gusto an spirit,An when it wor touched it shone breeter, an flared up still higher,Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheerfurther back for aw couldn't bide near it;
Th' dull saand o'th' church bells coom to tell meone moor Christmas mornin,Had come, for its welcome—but ha could awwelcome it when all alooan?For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an th' cold wind wor mooanin,An them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i'that cold church yard, under a stooan.
Soa aw went to bed an aw slept, an then began dreamin,'At mi wife stood by mi side,an smiled, an mi heart left off its beatin,An aw put aght mi hand, an awoke, an mornin wor gleamin;An its made me feel sorrowful, an aw connot give ovver freatin.
For aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha' been,If awd gooan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares,nor partin, nor sorrow,For aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha seen,But aw'll try to be patient,an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.
It's forty long summers an winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye,"An as fine a young fella tha wor, as ivver aw met i' mi life;When tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try,An aw stopt at hooam to toil on,becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife.
An shoo wor a bonny young wench, an better nor bonny,—Aw seem nah as if aw can see her,wi' th' first little bairn on her knee;An we called it Ann, for aw liked that name best ov onny,An fowk said it wor th' pictur o'th' mother,wi' just a strinklin o' me.
An th' next wor a lad, an th' next wor a lad, then a lass came,—That made us caant six,—an six happier fowk nivver sat to a meal,An they grew like hop plants—full o' life—but waikly i'th' frame,An at last one drooped, an Deeath coom an marked her with his seal.
A year or two moor an another seemed longin to goa,An all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed,'at he might sleep sweeter—Then th' third seemed to sicken an pine, an we couldn't say "noa,"For he said his sister had called,an he wor most anxious to meet her—