When twelve o'clock struck, th' wife says "aw'll prepare,An ov ivvery gooid thing they shall all have a share;But aw think some o'th' lasses should help me for once,"An aw answered, "ov coorse,—they'll be glad ov a chonce."Soa aw went to call em, but nivver a signCould aw find o' them strackle-brained childer o' mine;An when th' wife went ith' cellar for th' puddin an th' beef,An saw th' oppen winder, it filled her wi grief,An shoo sed, "nay old lad,This is rayther too bad,We can't celebrate Kursmiss to-day,"
Aw went huntin raand, an ith' weshus aw faand,Some bits o' cold puddin, beef, spicecake an cheese;Then aw heard a big shaat, an when aw lukt agivt,Them taistrels wor laffin as hard as yo pleeas.Aw felt rayther mad,—but ov coorse awm ther dad,An as it wor Kursmiss aw tuk it as fun;But what made me capt, wor th' ale worn't tapt,Soa mi old wife an me stuck to that wol 'twor done.An aw railly did feelWe enjoyed ussen weel,An we had a gooid Kursmiss that day.
Mi Love's Come Back.
Let us have a jolly spree,An wi' joy an harmonie,Let the merry moments flee,For mi love's come back.O, the days did slowly pass,When awd lost mi little lass,But nah we'll have a glass,For mi love's come back.
O, shoo left me in a hig,An shoo didn't care a fig,But nah aw'll donce a jig,For mi love's come back,An aw know though far away,'At her heart ne'er went astray,An awst ivver bless the day,For mi love's come back.
When shoo axt me yesterneet,What made mi een soa breet?Aw says, "Why cant ta see'ts'Coss mi love's come back,"Then aw gave her sich a kiss,An shoo tuk it nooan amiss;—An awm feeard awst brust wi bliss,For mi love's come back.
Nah, awm gooin to buy a ring,An a creddle an a swing,Ther's noa tellin what may spring,Nah, mi love's come back;O, aw nivver thowt befooar,'At sich joy could be i' stooar,But nah aw'll grieve noa moor,For mi love's come back.
A Wife.
Who is it, when one starts for th' dayA cheerin word is apt to say,At sends yo leeter on yor way?A wife.
An who, when th' wark is done at neet,Sits harknin for yor clogs i'th' street,An sets warm slippers for yor feet?A wife.
An who, when yo goa weary in,Bids th' childer mak a little din,An smiles throo th' top o'th' heead to th' chin?A wife.
An who, when troubled, vext an tried,Comes creepin softly to yor side,An soothes a grief 'at's hard to bide?A wife.
An when yor ommost driven mad,Who quiets yo daan, an calls yo "lad,"An shows yo things are nooan soa bad?A wife.
Who nivver once forgets that day,When yo've to draw yor bit o' pay,But comes to meet yo hawf o'th' way?A wife.
Who is it, when yo hooamward crawl,Taks all yo have, an thinks it small;Twice caants it, an says, "Is this all?"A wife.
All Tawk.
Some tawk becoss they think they're bornWi' sich a lot o' wit;Some seem to tawk to let fowk knowThey're born withaat a bit.Some tawk i' hooaps 'at what they sayMay help ther fellow men;But th' inooast 'at tawk just tawk becossThey like to hear thersen.
Aw Can't Tell.
Aw nivver rammel mich abaat,Aw've summat else to do;But yet aw think, withaat a daat,Aw've seen a thing or two.
One needn't leeav his native shoor,An visit foreign lands,—At hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moorNor what he understands.
Aw can't tell why a empty heeadShould be held up soa heigh,Or why a suit o' clooas should leeadSoa monny fowk astray.
Aw can't tell why a child 'at's bornTo lord or lady that,Should be soa worship'd, wol they scornA poor man's little brat.
Aw can't tell why a workin manShould wear his life away,Wol maisters grasp at all they can,An grudge a chap his pay.
Aw can't tell why a lot o' thingsAre as they seem to be;But if its nowt to nubdy else,Ov coorse its nowt to me.
Happen Thine.
Then its O! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know!Who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow,Who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise,An who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways.
Shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam,Shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come;Shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may,Shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way.
At morn when her husband sets off to his wark,Shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark;An at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back,An if worried forgets all his cares in a crack.
If onny naybor is sick or distressed,Shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best;An if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace,They fly straight to her and they tell her ther case.
Shoo harkens—an then in a motherly toneSympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own;Shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way,To return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray.
Soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight,Yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight.Shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,—Shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born.
Shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had,For her principal joy is to see others glad;Shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own,Has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan.
If failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,—Shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;—To know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;—If shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad.
Contrasts.
If yo've a fancy for a spree,Goa up to Lundun, same as me,Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see,To pleeas yo weel.If seem isn't quite enuff,Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff,To find some awkard sooarts o' stuffAt yo can feel.
Yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoeOn some poleeceman's tender toa,—A varry simple thing to do,—An wi a crackEnuff to mak a deead man jump,Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump,An then he'll fling yo wi a bump,Flat o' yor back.
If signs o' riches suit yo best,Yer een can easily be blest;Or if yo seek for fowk distrest,They're easy fun,Wi faces ommost worn to nowt,An clooas at arn't worth a thowt,Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt,Till fairly done.
Like a big ball it rolls along,A nivver ending, changing throng,Mixt up together, waik an strong,—An gooid an bad.Virtues an vices side bi side,—Poverty slinkin after pride,—Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide,Some gay, some sad.
It ommost maks one have a daat,(To see some strut, some crawl abaat,One in a robe, one in a claat,)If all's just square.It may be better soa to be,But to a simpleton like me,It's hard to mak sich things agree;It isn't fair.
To Mally.
Its long sin th' parson made us one,An yet it seems to me,As we've gooan thrustin, toilin on,Time's made noa change i' thee.Tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,—Tha's nivver stopt it yet;An aw expect tha'll growl awayTh' last bit o' breeath tha'll get.
Growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind!It nivver troubles me;Aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,—Ther's lots 'at's war nor thee.An if tha's but a hooamly face,Framed in a white starched cap,Ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,—Ther's nooan aw'd like to swap.
Soa aw'll contented jog along,—It's th' wisest thing to do;Aw've seldom need to use im tongue,Tha tawks enuff for two.Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed,An finds me clooas to don;An if to-day aw worn't wed,Aw'd say to thee,—"Come on."
Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.
Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,Ov that yo may be sewer;Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!An th' biggest wor her yure.Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,It wor soa varry red.
Young fowk we know are seldom wise,—Experience taiches wit;—Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyesIs net as black as jet.Wol others seem quite in a stew,An can't tell whear to bide,'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,—An twenty things beside.
Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,It had a ruddy cast;An once shoo heeard a silly fop,Say as he hurried past—"There goes the girl I'd like to wed,—'Twould grant my heart's desire;In spring pull carrots from her head,—In winter 'twould save fire."
Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,—Shoo made a fearful vow,To have to some fresh color turnedThat yure upon her brow.Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop,An dyed all sooarts o' things;An off shoo went withaat a stop,As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.
Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale,An tears stood in her ee;"Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod failIf axt, to dye for thee.What color could ta like it done?Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can;We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun,But aw think aw know a plan."
"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can;Black's sewer to suit me best;Aw dooant care if its black an tan,—Mi life's been sich a pest.For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't,Ther's lots noa better bred,Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight,Becoss mi yure's soa red."
"Come on ageean to-morn at neet,Aw'll have all ready, lass;An if aw connot do it reightAw'll ax thi for noa brass."Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean,An into bed shoo popt,Her fowk wor capt what it could meean,For thear th' next day shoo stopt,
When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd,An off shoo went to th' place;Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd,Or one i' dire disgrace."Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah,It's stewin here i'th' pan;Aw'll dip thi heead,—hold,—steady nah!Just bide it if tha can."
Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might,But as all th' doors wor shut,He nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet,It weant do baght its wut.To leearn mi trade, for twenty year,Throo morn to neet aw've toiled,An know at nawther hanks nor heeads,Are weel dyed unless boiled.
But as tha'rt varry tender,An aw've takken th' job i' hand,Aw'll try it rayther cooiler,—But then, th' color might'nt stand."An for a while he swilled an slopt,Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd;An when he wrung it aght an stopt,He varry near wor floored.
For wol thrang workin wi' her yure,He'd been soa taen wi' th' case,He'd nivver gein a thowt befooar,Abaat her neck an face.But nah he saw his sad mistak,Yet net a word he sed;Her skin wor all a deep blue black,Her yure, a dark braan red.
He gate her hooam sooin as he could,Shoo slyly slipt up stairs;An chuckled to think ha shoo shouldTak all th' fowk unawares.Shoo slept that neet just like a top,Next morn shoo rose content,Shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop,An then daan stairs shoo went.
All th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,—Th' old fowk they stared like mad;—"Nay, Sally! has ta lost thi wits?Or has ta seen th' Old Lad?"Shoo smil'd an sed, "Well, what's to do?""Gooid gracious! whear's ta been?Thi face has turned a breet sky blue,Thi yure's a bottle green!"
Shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see,An then her heart stood still;"That villan sed 'he'd dee for me,'Aw'll swing for him, aw will!"An then shoo set her daan o'th flooar,As if her heart wod braik;An th' childer gethered raand to rooar,But th' old fowk nivver spaik.
I' time her grief grew less, ov course,Shoo raased hersen at last;Shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse,For th' color still proved fast.They sent a bobby after th' chap,He browt him in a crack;Says he, "It's been a slight mishap,Aw've made a small mistak.
But just to prove aw meant noa ill,Mi offer, friends, is this;If shoo'll consent to say 'I will,'Aw'll tak her as shoo is.Tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed,That's sewer to wear away;Aw'd like to own her yure soa red,Until time turns it grey."
Says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks,Tha'rt strivin to misleead.""Nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks,But tha's fair turned my heead.""Aw think yo'd better far agree,"Sed th' old fowk in a breeath;"Will ta ha me?" "Will ta ha me?""An nah we'll stick till deeath."
Sooin after that th' law made 'em one,An sin that time awm sewer;He ne'er regretted th' job he'd done,Nor shoo her ruddy yure.An when fowk ax'd her ha to getSich joy as hers, shoo sed,"If anxious for some gradely wit,Just goa an boil thi heead."
Try a Smile.
This world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it,Yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain;Some grummel at times when they might do withaat it,An oft withaat reason complain.A fraan on a face nivver adds to its beauty,Then let us forget for a whileTheas small disappointments, an mak it a duty,To try the effect ov a smile.Though the sun may be claaded he'll shine aght agean,If we nobbut have patience an wait,An its sewer to luk breeter for th' shadda ther's been;Then let's banish all fooilish consait,If we'd nivver noa sorrow joys on us wod pall,Soa awr hearts let us all reconcileTo tak things as they come, makkin th' best on 'em all,An cheer up a faint heart wi' a smile.
Growin Old.
Old age, aw can feel's creepin on,Aw've noa taste for what once made me glad;Mi love ov wild marlocks is gooan,An aw know awm noa longer a lad.When aw luk back at th' mile stooans aw've pass'd,As aw've thowtlessly stroll'd o'er life's track,Awm foorced to acknowledge at last,'At its mooastly been all a mistak.
Aw know aw can ne'er start agean,An what's done aw can nivver undo,All aw've gained has been simply to leearnHa mi hooaps, one bi one's fallen throo.When a lad, wi' moor follies nor brains,Aw thowt what awd do as a man;An aw caanted mi profits an gains,As a lad full ov hooap only can.
An aw thowt when mi beard 'gan to grow,Aw could leead all this world in a string,Yet it tuk but a few years to show'At aw couldn't do onny sich thing.But aw tewd an aw fowt neet an day,An detarmined awd nivver give in,Hooap still cheered me on wi' her ray,An awd faith 'at i'th' long run awst win.
A fortun aw felt wor for me,An joy seem'd i'th' grasp o' mi list;An aw laffd as aw clutched it wi' glee,But someha or other it miss'd.Still, aw pluckt up mi courage once moor,An aw struggled wi' might an wi' main,But awd noa better luck nor befooar,An mi harvest wor sorrow an pain.
An nah, when mi best days are passed,An mi courage an strength are all spent;Aw've to stand o' one side an at last,Wi' mi failures an falls rest content,In this world some pleasures to win,Aw've been trubbled an tried an perplext,An aw've thowtlessly rushed into sin,An ne'er cared for a treasure i'th' next.
As mi limbs get moor feeble an waik,An aw know sooin mi race will be run;Mi heart ommost feels fit to braik,When aw think what aw've left all undone.Nah, aw've nobbut th' fag end o' mi daysTo prepare for a world withaat end;Soa its time aw wor changin mi ways.For ther's noa time like the present to mend
Gooid Bye, Old Lad.
Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend,Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi;Let friendship simmer on to th' end;—God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!
Aw prize thee just for what tha art;—Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station;But just becoss aw know thi heart,Finds honest worth an habitation.
Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black,Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it:Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack,Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.
Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave,Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,''At wodn't gie a meg to saveA luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.
Praichers an taichers seem to swarm,But sad to tell,—th' plain honest fact is,They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm,Nor put ther taichin into practice.
But thee,—aw read thee like a book,—Aw judge thi booath bi word an action;An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look,An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.
Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad!An till we meet agean, God bless thi!May smilin fortun mak thi glad,An may noa ills o' life distress thi.
That Drabbled Brat.
Goa hooam,—tha little drabbled brat,Tha'll get thi deeath o' cold;Whear does ta live? Just tell me that,Befooar aw start to scold.
Thart sypin weet,—dooant come near me!Tha luks hawf pined to deeath;An what a cough tha has! dear me!It ommost taks thi breeath.
Them een's too big for thy wee face,—Thi curls are sad neglected;Poor child! thine seems a woeful case,Noa wonder tha'rt dejected.
Nah, can't ta tell me who tha art?Tha needn't think aw'll harm thi;Here, tak this sixpence for a start,An find some place to warm thi.
Tha connot spaik;—thi een poor thing,Are filled wi' tears already;Tha connot even start to sing,Thi voice is soa unsteady.
It isn't long tha'll ha to rooam,An sing thi simple ditty;Tha doesn't seem to be at hooam,I' this big bustlin city.
It's hard to tell what's best to beWhen seets are soa distressin;For to sich helpless bairns as thee,Deeath seems to be a blessin.
Some hear thi voice an pass thi by,An feel noa touch o' sorrow;An, maybe, them at heave a sigh,Laff it away to-morrow.
For tha may sing, or sigh, or cry;Nay,—tha may dee if needs be;An th' busy craads 'at hurries by,Streeams on an nivver heeds thee.
But ther is One, hears ivvery grooan,We needn't to remind Him;An He'll net leeav thi all alooan;God give thee grace to find Him!
An may be send His angels daan,Thi feet throo dangers guidin;Until He sets thee in His craan,—A gem, in light abidin.
Song for th' Hard Times, (1879.)
Nah chaps, pray dooant think it's a sarmon awm praichin,If aw tell yo some nooations at's entered mi pate;For ther's nubdy should turn a cold shoulder to taichin,If th' moral be whoalsum an th' matter be reight.We're goin throo a time o' bad trade an depression,An scoors o' poor crayturs we meet ivvery day,'At show bi ther faces they've had a hard lesson:—That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.
Aw couldn't but think as throo th' streets aw wor walkin,An lukt i' shop winders whear fin'ry's displayed,If they're able to sell it we're fooils to keep tawkin,An liggin all th' blame on this slackness o' trade.Tho times may be hard, yet ther's wealth, aye, an plenty,An if fowk do ther duty aw'll venter to say,Ther's noa reason a honest man's plate should be empty:—That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.
When it's freezin an snowin, an cold winds are blowin,Aw see childer hawf covered wi two or three rags;As they huddle together to shelter throo th' weather,An think thersen lucky to find some dry flags;Wol others i' carriages, gay wi fine paintin,Lapt up i' warm furs, they goa dashin away;Do they think o' them poor little childer at's faintin?—That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.
All honor to them who have proved thersen willin,To help the unfortunate ones from their stooar;An if freely bestowed, be it pence, pound, or shillin,They shall nivver regret what they've given to th' poor.An if we all do what we can for our naybor,We shall sooin drive this bitter starvation away;Till th' time when gooid wages reward honest labor:—That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.
But theas trubbles an trials may yet prove a blessin,If when th' sun shines agean we all strive to mak hay;An be careful to waste nowt o' drinkin an dressin,But aght ov fair wages put summat away.When adversity's claad agean hangs o'er the nation,We can wait for th' return ov prosperity's ray;An noa mooar find awr land i' this sad situation:—That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.
An ther's one matter mooar, at aw cannot but mention,For it points aght a moral at shouldn't be missed;Can't yo see ha they use ivvery aid an invention,To grind daan yor wage when yo cannot resist.If yo strike, they dooant care, for yor foorced to knock under,Yor net able to live if they stop off yer pay;Will it bring workin men to ther senses aw wonder?—That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.
Some are lukkin for help from this chap or tother,An pinnin ther faith on pet parliament men;But to feight ther own battles finds them lots o' bother,An if help's what yo want yo mun luk to yorsen.If we're blessed wi gooid health, an have brains, booans, an muscle,An keep a brave heart, we shall yet win the fray;An be wiser an stronger for havin this tussle:—That's a nooation held then, an it holds to this day.
Stir thi Lass!
Come lassie be stirrin, for th' lark's up ith' lift,An th' dew drops are hastin away;An th' mist oth' hillside is beginnin to shift,An th' flaars have all wakkened for th' day.Tha promised to meet me beside this thorn tree,An darlin, thi sweet face awm langing to see;When tha arn't here ther's noa beauty for me;Soa stir thi lass, stir thi,Or else awst come for thi,For tha knows what tha tell'd me last neet tha wod be.
Come lassie be stirrin, awm here all alooan;Tha'rt sewerly net slumb'rin still;Th' lark's finished his tune an th' dewdrops have gooan,An th' mist's rolled away ovver th' hill.Net a wink have aw slept sin aw left thee last neet,Lukkin forrad to th' time when tha sed we should meet;But it's past, an mi sweetheart is still aght oth' seet;But its cappin, lass, cappin,'At tha should be nappin,When tha knows what tha promised at th' end o' awr street.
Awm weary o' waitin, aw'll off to mi wark,Awst be bated a quarter,—that's flat;—If tha's nobbut been fooilin me just for a lark,Tha may find thi mistak when to lat.Aw wanted to mak thi mi wife, for aw thowt,Tha'd prove thisen just sich a mate as aw sowt;But it seems tha'rt a false-hearted, young gooid-for-nowt!But aw see thi, lass, see thi!God bless thi! forgie me!For tha'rt truer an fairer an dearer nor owt.
Tother Day.
As awm sittin enjoyin mi pipe,An tooastin mi shins beside th' hob,Aw find ther's a harvest quite ripe,O' thowts stoored away i' mi nob.An aw see things as plainly to-neet,'At long years ago vanished away,—As if they'd but just left mi seet,Tother day.
Aw remember mi pranks when at schooil,When mischievous tricks kept me soa thrang;An mi maister declared me a fooil,—An maybe, he wor net soa far wrang.Ha mi lessons awd skip throo, or miss,To give me mooar chonces for play;An aw fancy aw went throo all this,Tother day.
Aw remember mi coortin days too,—What a felly aw fancied misen;An aw swore at mi sweetheart wor true,—For mi faith knew noa falterin then.Aw remember ha jealous an mad,Aw felt, when shoo turned me away,An left a poor heartbrokken lad,Tother day.
Aw remember when hung o' mi arm,To th' church went mi blushin' young bride;Ha aw glooated o'er ivvery charm,An swell'd like a frog i' mi pride.An th' world seem'd a fooitball to me,To kick when inclined for a play;An life wor a jolly gooid spree,—Tother day.
Aw remember mi day dreeams o' fame,An aw reckoned what wealth aw should winBut alas! aw confess to mi shame,—Aw leeav offwhear aw thowt to begin,Mi chief joy is to dreeam o' what's pass'd,For mi future, one hope sheds its ray,An awm driftin along varry fast,To that day.
Happy Sam's Song.
Varry monny years ago, when this world wor rather young,A varry wicked sarpent, wi' a varry oily tongue,Whispered summat varry nowty into Mistress Adam's ear;An shoo pluckt a little apple 'at soa temptingly hung near.Then shoo ait this dainty fruit shoo'd been tell'd shoo mudn't touch,An shoo gave some to her husband, but it wornt varry much:—But sin that fatal day, he wor tell'd, soa it wor sed,'At henceforth wi' a sweeaty broo, he'd have to earn his breead.An all awr lords an princes, an ladies great an grand,Have all sprung off that common stock a laborer i' the land;Soa aw think ther airs an graces are little but a sham,An aw wodn't change 'em places wi' hardworkin, Happy Sam.
Awm contented wi' mi share,Rough an ready tho' mi fare,An aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor;If yo wonder who aw am,Well,—mi name is Happy Sam;Awm a member ov the multitude who labor.
When aw've worked throo morn to neet for a varry little brass,Yet a smilin welcome greets me from mi buxom, bonny lass;An two tiny little toddles come to meet me at mi door,An they think noa less ov daddy's kiss becoss that daddy's poor;An as aw sit to smook mi pipe, mi treasures on mi knee;Aw think ther's net a man alive 'at's hawf as rich as me;Aw wodn't change mi station wi' a king upon his throne,For ivvery joy araand me, honest labor's made mi own.An we owe noa man a penny 'at we're net prepared to pay,An we're tryin hard to save a bit agean a rainy day.Soa aw cry a fig for care! Awm contented as aw am,—An bless the fate 'at made me plain, hardworkin, Happy Sam.
Awm contented wi' mi share,Rough an ready tho' mi fare,An aw strive to do mi duty to mi naybor;If yo wonder who aw am,Well, mi name is Happy Sam,Awm a member ov the multitude who labor.
Gradely Weel off.
Draw thi cheer nigher th' foir, put th' knittin away,Put thi tooas up o'th' fender to warm:We've booath wrought enuff, aw should think, for a day,An a rest willn't do us mich harm.Awr lot's been a rough en, an tho' we've grown old,We shall have to toil on to its end;An altho' we can booast nawther silver nor gold,Yet we ne'er stood i'th' want ov a Friend.
Soa cheer up, old lass,Altho' we've grown grey,An we havn't mich brass,Still awr hearts can be gay:For we've health an contentment an soa we can say,'At we're gradely weel off after all.
As aw coom ovver th' moor, a fine carriage went by,An th' young squire wor sittin inside;An wol makkin mi manners aw smothered a sigh,As for th' furst time aw saw his young bride.Shoo wor white as a sheet, an soa sickly an sad,Wol aw could'nt but pity his lot;Thinks aw, old an grey, yet awm richer to-day,For aw've health an content i' mi cot.Soa cheer up, old lass, &c.
Gie me th' pipe off o'th' hob, an aw'll tak an odd whiff,For aw raillee feel thankful to-neet;An altho' mi booans wark, an mi joints are all stiff,Yet awm able to keep mi heart leet.If we've had a fair share ov th' world's trubble an care,We mun nivver forget i' times past,Ther wor allus one Friend, His help ready to lend,An He'll nivver forsake us at last.Soa cheer up, old lass, &c.
Tho' we've noa pew at th' church, an we sit whear we can,An th' sarmon we dooant understand;An th' sarvice is all ov a new fangled plan,An th' mewsic's suppooased to be grand,—We can lift up awr hearts when we come hooam at neet,As we sing th' old psalms ovver agean;An tho' old crackt voices dooant saand varry sweet,He knows varry weel what we mean.
Soa cheer up, old lass,Altho' we've grown grey,An we havn't mich brass,Still awr hearts can be gay;For we've health an contentment, an soa we can say,'At we're gradely weel off after all.
Is it Reight?
Awm noa radical, liberal nor toory,Awm a plain spokken, hard-workin man;Aw cooart nawther fame, wealth nor glory,But try to do th' best 'at aw can.But when them who hold lofty positions,Are unmindful of all but thersen,—An aw know under what hard conditions,Thaasands struggle to prove thersen men,It sets me a thinkin an thinkin,Ther's summat 'at wants setting reight;An wol th' wealthy all seem to be winkin,Leeavin poor fowk to wonder an wait,—Is it cappin to find one's hooap sickens?Or at workers should join in a strike?When they see at distress daily thickens,Till despairin turns into dislike?Is it strange they should feel discontented,An repine at ther comfortless lot,When they see lux'ry rife in the mansion,An starvation at th' door ov the cot?Is it reight 'at theas hard-handed workersShould wear aght ther life day bi day,An find 'at th' reward for ther laborsIs ten per cent knockt off ther pay?But we're tell'd 'at we owt to be thankfulIf we've plenty to ait an to drink;An its sinful to question one's betters,—We wor sent here to work, net to think.Then lets try to appear quite contented,For this maathful o' summat to ait;Its for what us poor fowk wor invented,—But awm blowed if aw think at its reight.
A Yorksher Bite.
Bless all them bonny lasses,I' Yorksher born an bred!Ther beauty nooan surpasses,Complete i'th' heart an th' heead.An th' lads,—tho aw've seen monny lands,Ther equal aw ne'er met;For honest hearts an willin hands,They nivver can be bet.Aw nivver hold mi heead soa heigh,Or feel sich true delight,As when fowk point me aght an say,"Thear gooas a Yorksher Bite."
Lily's Gooan.
"Well, Robert! what's th' matter! nah mun,Aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet;Thi een luk as red as a sun—Aw saw that across th' width of a street;Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war—Surelee—th' little thing is'nt deead?Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar—What means ta bi shakin thi heead?Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'eAt shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet,When youngens like her hap ta dee,They miss troubles as some live to hit.Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss,Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say,But give over freatin, becossIt's for th' best if shoo's been taen away.""A'a! Daniel, it's easy for theeTo talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine;But its ommost deeath-blow to me,Shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine;An' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan,Mi feelins noa mortal can tell;Mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan,An' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel.Aw shall think on it wor aw to liveTo be th' age o' Methusla or moor;Tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve,We should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure:An' when shoo'd been dreamin one day,Shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call;But shoo could'nt for th' life goa awayTill they call'd for her daddy an' all.An' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark,Shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed;An' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark,An' listened to all 'at shoo's said;Shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt,When shoo's been ov a Sundy to th' schooil,An ax'd me what dift'rent things meant,Woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooillAn' when aw've been gloomy an' sad,Shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand,An whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad;Aw'm gooin to a happier land;An' aw'll tell Jesus when aw get thear,'At aw've left yo here waitin his call;An' He'll find yo a place, niver fear,For ther's room up i' heaven for all.'An' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise,Shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me,Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes,An' aw find at aw hardly can see.—Gooid bye!—kiss yor Lily agean,—Let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast!Aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain;Then Lily shoo went to her rest."
What aw Want.
Gie me a little humble cot,A bit o' garden graand,Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot,Wi' hills an' trees all raand;
An' if besides mi hooam ther flowsA little mumuring rill,At sings sweet music as it gooas,Awst like it better still.
Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel,An' childer two or three,Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal,An' hearts brimful o' glee.
Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toilMi efforts to engage,Gie me a maister who can smileWhen forkin aght mi wage.
Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust,'An tell mi secrets to;One tender-hearted, firm an' just,Who sticks to what is true.
Gie me a pipe to smook at neet,A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale,A faithful dog 'at runs to meetMe wi a waggin tail.
A cat to purr o'th' fender rims,To freeten th' mice away;A cosy bed to rest mi limbsThroo neet to commin day.
Gie me all this, an' aw shall beContent, withaat a daat,But if denied, then let me beContent to live withaat.
For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possessCan purchase pleasures true;For he's th' best chonce o' happiness,Whose wants are small an' few.
Latter Wit.
Awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat,Wheear last aw set wi' thee;It seems long years sin' last we met,Awm sure it must be three.
Awm wond'rin what aw sed or did,Or what aw left undone:'At made thi hook it, an' get wed,To one tha used to shun.
Aw dooant say awm a handsom chap,Becoss aw know awm net;But if aw wor 'ith' mind to change,He isn't th' chap, aw'll bet.
Awm net a scoller, but aw knowA long chawk moor ner him;It couldn't be his knowledge box'At made thi change thi whim.
He doesn't haddle as mich brassAs aw do ivery wick:An' if he gets a gradely shop,It's seldom he can stick.
An' then agean,—he goes on th' rant;Nah, that aw niver do;—Aw allus mark misen content,Wi' an odd pint or two.
His brother is a lazy lout,—His sister's nooan too gooid,—Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,—Vice seems to run ith' blooid.
An yet th'art happy,—soa they say,That caps me moor ner owt!Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,Nor iver awst ha' thowt.
Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,Befoor yo'd getten wed;Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, thoAw dooant know what he sed.
But he'd his arm araand thi waist,An tho' thi face wor hid,Aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:—That's what aw niver did.
Aw thowt tha'd order him away,An' mak a fearful row,But tha niver tuk noa nooatice,Just as if tha didn't know.
Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes,Aw've been a trifle soft,Aw happen should a' dun't misen?Aw've lang'd to do it oft.
Thar't lost to me, but if a chonceShould turn up by-an-by,If aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits,That isn't t'reason why.
A Millionaire.
Aw wodn't gie a penny pieceTo be a millionaire,For him 'at's little cattle, isThe chap wi' little care.Jewels may flash o'er achin broos,An silken robes may hideBosoms all fair to look upon,Whear braikin hearts abide.
Gie me enuff for daily needs,An just a bit to spend;Enuff to pay mi honest way,An help a strugglin friend.Aw'll be contented it aw keepThe wolf from off mi door;Aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass,An nivver dream awm poor.
Dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early mornAre diamons for me.An jewels glint i' ivvery tint,On th' hill or daan i'th' lea.My sweet musicianers are burdsAt tune their joyous lay,Araand mi cottage winder,An nivver strike for pay.
Aw lang for noa fine carriagesTo drag me raand about!Shanks galloway my purpose fitsFar better, beyond daat.An when at times aw weary grow,An fain wod have a rest;Aw toddle hooam an goa to bed,—That allus answers best.
"Insomnia;" ne'er bothers me,—It's tother way abaght;Aw sleep throo tummelin into bed,Wol th' time to tummel aght.Aw nivver want a "pick-me-up,"To tempt mi appetite;Aw ait what's set anent me,An aw relish ivvery bite.
What pleasure has a millionaire'At aw've net one to match?Awd show 'em awm best off o'th' two,If they'd come up to th' scratch.Ov one thing aw feel sartin sewer,They've mooar nor me to bear;Yo bet! its net all "Lavender,"To be a millionaire.
Mi Fayther's Pipe.
AW'VE a treasure yo'd laff if yo saw,But its mem'ries are dear to mi heart;For aw've oft seen it stuck in a jaw,Whear it seem'd to form ommost a part.Its net worth a hawpny, aw know,But its given mooar pleasure maybe,Nor some things at mak far mooar show,An yo can't guess its vally to me.
Mi fayther wor fond ov his pipe,An this wor his favorite clay;An if mi ideas wor ripe,Awd enshrine it ith' folds ov a lay;But words allus fail to expressWhat aw think when aw see its old face;For aw know th' world holds one friend the less,An mi hearth has one mooar vacant place.
Ov trubbles his life had its share,But he kept all his griefs to hissen;Tho aw've oft seen his brow knit wi care,Wol he tried to crack jooaks nah an then.But one comfort he'd ivver i' stooar,An he'd creep to his favorite nook,An seizin his old pipe once mooar,All his trubbles would vanish i' smook.
If his fare should be roughish or scant,He nivver repined at his lot;He seem'd to have all he could want,If he knew he'd some bacca ith' pot.An he'd fill up this little black clay,An as th' reek curled away o'er his heead,Ivvery trace ov his sorrow gave way,An a smile used to dwell thear asteead.
He grew waiker as years rolled along,An his e'eseet an hearin gave way;An his limbs at had once been soa strong,Grew shakier day after day.Yet his heart nivver seem'd to grow old,Tho life's harvest had long been past ripeFor his ailments wor allus consoled,When he'd getten a whiff ov his pipe,
Aw'll keep it as long as aw can,For its all aw've been able to save,To bind mi heart still to th' old man,At's moulderin away in his grave.He'd noa strikin virtues to booast,Noa vices for th' world to condemn;To be upright an honest an just,In his lifetime he ne'er forgate them,
As a fayther, kind, patient and true,His mem'ry will allus be dear;For he acted soa far as he knew,For th' best to all th' fowk he coom near.An aw ne'er see this blackened old clay,But aw find mi een dimmed wi a tear;An aw ne'er put th' old relic awayBut aw wish mi old fayther wor here.
Let th' Lasses Alooan!
What a lot ov advice ther is wasted;—What praichin is all thrown away;—Young fowk lang for pleasures untasted,An its little they'll heed what yo say.Old fowk may have wisdom i' plenty,But they're apt to forget just one thing;What suits sixty will hardly fit twenty,An youth ivver will have its fling.
__________
Old Jenny sat silently freeatin,—Sed Alec, "Pray lass, what's to do?"But his old wife went on wi her knittin,As if shoo'd a task to get throo.Then shoo tuk off her specs, and sed sadly,"Awm capt ha blind some fowk can be;Ther's reason for me lukkin badly,But nowt maks a difference to thee."
Ther's awr Reuben, he's hardly turned twenty,An awr Jim isn't nineteen wol May;—Aw provide for em gooid things i plenty,An ne'er a wrang word to em say;But they've noa sooiner swoller'd ther drinkin,Nor they're don'd, an away off they've gooan,An awm feared,—for aw connot help thinkin,At they dunnot let th' lasses alooan.
Ther's that forrad young hussy, Sal Sankey,Awm thankful shoo's noa child o' mine:—When awr Reuben's abaat shoo's fair cranky;—An shoo's don'd like some grand lady fine.An Reuben's soa soft he can't see it,An aw mud as weel praich to a stooan,He does nowt but grin when aw tell him,To mind, an let th' lasses alooan.
Awr Jim follers Reuben's example,He hasn't a morsel o' wit!An yond lass o' Braans,—shoo's a sampleOv a gigglin, young impitent chit.An he'd cheek to tell me shoo wor bonny,—One like her!!—Why, shoo's just skin an booanAwd have better nor her if awd onny,But he'd better let th' lasses alooan.
"All th' four went to th' meetin last Sundy,—Aw dursn't think what they'll do next;An ther worrit one on em at MundyCould tell what th' chap tuk for his text.Tha may laff, like a child at a bubble,But thi laff may yet end in a grooan;For they're sartin to get into trubble,If they dunnot lei th' lasses alooan."
"Aw connot help laffin, old beauty!Tho' aw know at tha meeans to do reight;Tha's nivver neglected thi duty,An tha's kept thi lads honest an straight.Just think ha ther father behaved whenHe met thee i'th' days at are gooan;Tha knows ha aw beg'd, an aw slaved, thenTo win th' lass at aw ne'er let alooan."
"Aw've nivver regretted that mornin,When aw made thi mi bonny young bride,An although we're nah past life's turnin,We still jog along, side bi side.We've shared i' booath pleasures an bothers,An ther's noa reason why we should mooan;An its folly to try to stop others,For lads willn't let th' lasses alooan,"
A Breet Prospect.
As aw passed Wit'orth chapel 'twor just five o'clock,Aw'd mi can full o' teah, an a bundle o' jock;An aw thowt th' bit o' bacca aw puffed on mi wayWor sweeter nor ivver aw'd known it that day.An th' burds sang soa sweetly,An th' sun shone soa breetly,An th' trees lukt soa green;—it wor th' furst day i' May.
Aw wor lazy that mornin, an could'nt help thinkin,As aw'd getten booath braikfast, an dinner, an drinkin,An bacca, an matches,—'at just a odd dayFor a stroll, could'nt braik monny squares onnyway,But it tuk me noa little,To screw up mi mettle,For if th' wife gate to know aw'd a guess what shoo'd say.
Soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit,Its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat;But aw'll have a day aght just bi th' way ov a change,For aw've moped i' yond miln wol aw raylee feel strange:For mi heead's full o'th' whirlin,O'th' twistin an twirlin;—Mun aw'm feeard aw'st goa crackt if aw've nivver a change.
Then aw thowt o' mi wife an mi childer at hooam,An says aw, aw shall loise a day's wage if aw rooam;Green fields an wild flaars wor ne'er meant for me,Aw mun tew ivvery day wol mi time comes to dee;An then fowk 'll mutter,As aw'm tossed into th' gutter,"It's nobbut a wayver;—oh, fiddle-de-dee!"
Missin Yor Way.
It wor dark an mi way wor across a wild mooar,An noa signs could aw find ov a track,'Twor a place whear aw nivver had rambled befooar;An aw eearnestly wished misen back.As aw went on an on mooar uneven it grew,An farther mi feet seem'd to stray,When a chap made me start, as he shaated "Halloa!Maister, yor missin yor way!"
Wi' his help aw contrived to land safely back hooam,An aw thowt as o'th' hearthstun aw set,What a blessin 'twod be if when other fowk rooam,They should meet sich a friend as aw'd met.An aw sat daan to write just theas words ov advice,Soa read 'em young Yorksher fowk, pray;An aw'st think for mi trubble aw'm paid a rare price,If aw've saved one throo missin ther way.
Yo lads 'at's but latly begun to wear hats,An fancy yor varry big men;Yo may fancy yor sharps when yor nowt nobbut flats,—Be advised an tak care o' yorsen.Shun that gin palace door as yo'd shun a wild beast,Nivver heed what yor comrades may say,Tho' they call yo a fooil, an they mak yo ther jest,Stand stedfast,—they're missin ther way.
Shun them lasses, (God help 'em!) 'at wander throo th' streets,An cut sich a dash an a swell,—Who simper an smirk at each chap 'at they meet,Flingin baits to drag victims to Hell.They may laff, they may shaat, they may join in a dance,They may spooart ther fine clooas an seem gay;But ther's sorrow within,—yo may see at a glance,—Poor crayturs! they're missin ther way.
Luk at yond,—but a child,—what's shoo dooin thear?Shoo sewerly is innocent yet?Her face isn't brazen,—an see, ther's a tearIn her ee an her checks are booath wet,They are tears ov despair, for altho' shoo's soa young,Shoo has sunk deep i' sin to obtainFine feathers an trinkets, an nah her heart's wrungWi' remorse, an shoo weeps wi' her pain.
But shoo's gooin away,—let us follo an seeWhear her journey soa hurried can tend;Some danger it may be shoo's tryin to flee,Or maybe shoo's i' search ov a friend.Her hooam, once soa happy, shoo durs'nt goa thear,For shoo's fill'd it wi' sorrow an grief;An shoo turns her een upward, as if wi' a fear,Even Heaven can give noa relief.
Nah shoo's takken a turn, an we've lost her,—but Hark!What's that cry? It's a cry o' distress!An o'th' bridge we discover when gropin i'th' dark,A crushed bonnet, a mantle an dress.An thear shines the river, soa quiet an still,O'er its bed soa uncertain an deep;Can it be? sich a thowt maks one's blooid to run chill,—Has that lass gooan for ivver to sleep?
Alas! soa it is. For shoo's takken a bound,An rashly Life's river shoo's crost;An th' wind seems to whisper wi' sorrowful sound,"Lost,—lost,—another one lost!"O, lads, an O, lasses! tak warnin i' time,Shun theas traps set bi Satan, whose baitMay seem temptin; beware! they're but first steps to crime,Act to-day,—lest to-morrow's too late.
Heather Bells.
Ye little flowrets, wild an free,Yo're welcome, aye as onny!Ther's but few seets 'at meet mi ee'At ivver seem as bonny.Th' furst gift 'at Lizzie gave to me,Wor a bunch o' bloomin heather,Shoo pluckt it off o'th' edge o'th' lea,Whear we'd been set together.
An when shoo put it i' mi hand,A silent tear wor wellinWithin her ee;—it fell to th' graand,A doleful stooary tellin."It is a little gift," shoo sed,"An sooin will fade an wither,Yet, still, befooar its bloom is shed,We two mun pairt for ivver."
I tried to cheer her trubbled mind,Wi' tender words endearin;An raand her neck mi arms entwined,But grief her breast wor tearin."Why should mi parents sell for gold,Ther dowter's life-long pleasure?Noa charm 'at riches can unfold,Can match a true love's treasure."
"But still, aw mun obey ther will,—It isn't reight to thwart it;But mi heart's love clings to thee still,An nowt but deeath can part it,Forgie me if aw cause a pang,—Aw'll love thee as a brother,—Mi heart is thine, an oh! its wrang,Mi hand to give another."
"Think on me when theas fields grow bare,An cold winds kill the flowers,Ov bitterness they have a share;Their lot is like to awrs.An if aw'm doomed to pine away,Wi' pleasure's cup untasted,Just drop a tear aboon the clay,'At hides a young life wasted."
"Why should awr lot soa bitter be,Theas burds 'at sing together,When storms are commin off they flee,To lands ov sunny wreather?An nah, when trubbles threaten theeWhat should prevent thee gooin,An linkin on thi fate wi' me,Withaat thi parents knowin?"
"Tha knows my love is soa sincere,Noa risk can mak it falter,Soa put aside all daat an fear,An goa wi' me to th' altarI' one month's time my wife tha'll be,—Or less if tha'll but shorten it.""Well then," says Lizzy, "aw'll agree,Tha'st have me in a fortnit."
Shoo laft an cried,—aw laft as weel,Aw feear'd shoo did'nt meean it;But Lizzie proved as true as steel,—Her fowk sed nowt ageean it.An who that wealthy chap could be,Aw nivver shall detarmin,For if aw ax shoo glints wi' glee.An says, "Thee mind thi farmin."
An soa aw till mi bit o' graand,An oft when aght together,I'th' cooil o'th' day we saunter raandAn pluck a sprig o' heather.Soa sweethearts nooat theas simple facts,An trust i' one another;A lass i' love ne'er stops to ax,Her fayther or her mother.
A Lucky Dog.
Tha'rt a rough en;—aye tha art,—an aw'll betJust as ready. Tha ne'er lived as a pet,Aw can tell.Ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead;Net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead,Like mysel.
Tha'rt noa beauty;—nivver wor;—nivver will;Ther's lots like thee amang men,—but then still,Sich is fate;An its fooilish for to be discontentAt a thing we've noa paar to prevent.That's true mate.
Why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell;If tha'rt seekin better luck,—its a sell,As tha'll find;Nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet,Aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet.Nivver mind.
Here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part,—Gently, pincher! Tak thi time. Here tha art;That's thy share.Are ta chooakin? Sarve thi reight! Tak thi time!Why it's wasted, owt 'at's gien thee 'at's prime.Aw declare.
Are ta lukkin for some mooar? Tha's a cheekTha mud nivver had a taste for a week,Tha'rt soa small;Aw've net tasted sin this nooin,—soa tha knows!Thi maath watters,—awm a fooil,—but here gooas,Tak it all.
Tha luks hungry even yet,-aw believeTha'd caar thear as long as awd owt to give,But it's done.Are ta lost? Aw'll tell thi what tha'd best doDraand thisen! or let's toss up which o'th' two,Just for fun.
Come, heead or tail? If its heead then its thee,But net furst time,—we'll have two aght o' three,—One to me.Nah, it's tail,—one an one,—-fairly tost,—If its tail a second time, then aw've lost;Two to thee.
Soa it's sattled, an tha's won;—aw've to dee,But aw think it weant meean mich to theeIf aw dull;For if awm poor, life is still sweet to all,Deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call,Sooin enuff.
Aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet,Aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leetAw expect.If tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog,Tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog,Recollect.
My Doctrine.
Aw wodn't care to live at all,Unless aw could be jolly!Let sanctimonious skinflints callAll recreation folly.
Aw still believe this world wor madeFor fowk to have some fun in;An net for everlastin trade,An avarice an cunnin.
Aw dooant believe a chap should beAt th' grinnel stooan for ivver;Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree,An better lat nor nivver.
It's weel enuff for fowk to praichAn praise up self denial;But them 'at's forradest to praich,Dooant put it oft to trial.
They'd rayther show a thaasand fowkA way, an point 'em to it;Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk,An try thersens to do it.
Aw think this world wor made for me,Net me for th' world's enjoyment;An to mak th' best ov all aw seeWill find me full employment.
"My race," they say, "is nearly run,It mightn't last a minnit;"But if ther's pleasure to be fun,Yo bet yor booits awm in it.
Aw wodn't care to live at all,Weighed daan wi' melancholy;My doctrine is, goa in for all,'At helps to mak life jolly.
That Lass.
Awm nobbut a poor workin man,An mi wage leeavs me little to spare;But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can,An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair.'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast,Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean;But th' one thing awm langin for mooast,Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.
They may call me a fooil or a ass,To tawk abaat wantin a wife;But there's nowt like a true hearted lass,To sweeten a workinman's life.An love is a feelin as pureIn a peasant as 'tis in a queen,An happy aw could be awm sewer,Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.
Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet,An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day;An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet,But its melted i'th' distance away.At mi lot aw cant help but repine,When aw think ov her bonny black een,For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine;That grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.
Mi Old Umberel
What matters if some fowk deride,An point wi' a finger o' scorn?Th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride,Befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born.But aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend,Tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen;But aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end,Tho' thart nobbut an old umberel.
Whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day,But for th' old ens they turn into fun?Who wor wearm thersen bent an grey,When their days had hardly begun.Ther own youth will quickly glide past;If they live they'll ail grow old thersel;An they'll long for a true friend at last,Tho' its nobbut an old umberel.
Tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn,Yet thi inside is honest an strong;But thi coverin's tattered an torn,An awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long.But when th' few years 'at's left us have run,An to th' world we have whispered farewells;May they say at my duty wor done,As weel as mi old umberel's
What it Comes to.
Young Alick gate wed, as all gradely chaps do,An tuk Sally for better or war;A daycenter felly ne'er foller'd a ploo,—Th' best lad ov his mother's bi far.
An shoo wor as nice a young lass as yo'll seeIn a day's march, aw'll wager mi hat;But yo know unless fowk's dispositions agree,Tho' they're bonny,—noa matter for that.
They'd better bi hawf have a hump o' ther rig,Or be favvor'd as ill as old Flew;If ther temper is sweet, chaps 'll net care a fig,Tho' his wife may have one ee or two.
Young Sally had nivver been used to a farm,An shoo seem'd to know nowt abaat wark;Shoo set wi' her tooas up o'th' fender to warm,Readin novels throo mornin to dark.
Alick saw 'at sich like gooins on wod'nt do,Soa one neet when they'd getten to bed,He tell'd her he thowt shoo'd best buckle too,Or else we'st be ruined, he sed.
Says Sally, "its cappin to hear thi awm sewer,For tha tell'd me befooar we wor wed,Tha'd be happy wi me, an tha wanted nowt mooarIf aw nivver stirred aght o' mi bed."
"Tha sed aw wor bonny, an th' leets o' mi eenWor enuff for thi sunshine throo life;An tha tell'd me tha wanted to mak me a queen,—But it seems 'at tha wanted a wife."
"Aw'm willin to own love's all reight in its way,An aw'm glad aw've discovered soa sooin'At love withaat labor sooin dwindles away,—For fowk can't live o' billin an cooin."
"That's my nooation too,—but aw thowt tha should try,What a wife as a laikon could be;Noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry,For aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee."
Hold up yer Heeads.
Hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin menSimple rich ens may laff an may scorn;Maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen,Somdy else lived befooar they wor born.As noble a heart may be fun in a man,Who's a poor ragged suit for his best,(An who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,)As yo'll find i' one mich better drest.Soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be,I'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle;An the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free,Or rob us o'th' wages we haddle!
A Quiet Day.
A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen!To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way!Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen,An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.
If aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean,Aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak;What they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn,Except to spooart clooas o' ther back.
Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once,Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut;An its seldom a chap has a chonce;—Whear the dickens has th' matches been put?
Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,—It will'nt tak long will'nt that,An as sooin as its gotten burned breet,Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.
Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,—Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp!It does nowt but splutter an smook,An this Hue's ov a varry poor stamp.
It's lukkin confaandedly black,—Its as dismal an dull as mi hat;Nah, Sal leets a foir in a crack,—Aw will give her credit for that.