Ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,—Aw could ait em to ivvery meal;Aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,—Its some trouble aw know varry weel.
Th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me!Aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet!Next time they set off for a spree,They'st net leeav me th' foir to leet.
Aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah,Aw can do wi' some milk an a cake;An fried taties they ne'er seem to me,Worth th' bother an stink 'at they make.
Whear's th' milk? Oh, its thear, an aw'm blest,That cat has its heead reight i'th' pot;S'cat! witta! A'a, hang it aw've missed!If aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot!
An th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane;It wor fooilish to throw it, that's true;Them 'at keep sich like cats are insane,For aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do.
Aw think aw'il walk aght for a while,But, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt!Aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style,An aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt.
It doesn't show varry mich thowt,When aw'm left wi' all th' haasewark to do,For fowk to set off an do nowt,Net soa mich as to blacken a shoe.
It'll be dinner time nah varry sooin,—An ther's beefsteaks i'th' cubbord aw know;But aw can't leet that foir bi nooin,An aw can't ait beefsteak when its raw.
Aw tell'd Sal this morn 'at shoo'd find,A rare appetite up i' that Glen;An aw think if aw dooant change mi mind,Aw shall manage to find one misen.
Aw wor fooilish to send 'em away,But they'll ha to do th' best at they can;But aw'st feel reight uneasy all th' day,—Wimmen's net fit to goa baght a man.
They've noa nooation what prices to pay,An they dooant know th' best places to call;Aw'il be bun it'll cost 'em to-day,What wod pay my expences an all.
It luks better, aw fancy, beside,When a chap taks his family raand;Nah, suppooas they should goa for a ride,An be pitched ovver th' brig an be draand.
Aw ne'er should feel happy ageean,If owt happen'd when aw wor away;An to leeav 'em i' danger luks meean,Just for th' sake o' mi own quiet day.
Aw could catch th' train at leeavs abaat nooin;E'e, gow! that'll be a gooid trick!An aw'st get a gooid dinner for gooin,An th' foir can goa to old Nick.
Its a pity to miss mi quiet day,But its better to do that 'at's reight;An it matters nowt what fowk may say,But a chap mun ha summat to ait,
Lass o'th Haley Hill.
O winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow,O sun, an stars an mooin!Aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know,An watched yo neet an nooin.But nah, yor paars to charm all flee,Altho' yor bonny still,But th' only beauty i' mi e'e,Is th' lass o'th Haley Hill.
Her een's my stars,—her smile's my sun,Her cheeks are rooases bonny;Her teeth like pearls all even run,Her brow's as fair as onny.Her swan-like neck,—her snowy breast,—Her hands, soa seldom still;Awm fain to own aw love her best,—Sweet lass o'th' Haley Hill.
Aw axt her i' mi kindest tone,To grant mi heart's desire;A tear upon her eyelid shone,—It set mi heart o' foir.Wi' whispers low aw told mi love,Shoo'd raised her droopin heead;Says shoo, "Awm sooary for thi lad,But awm already wed;An if awr Isaac finds thee here,—As like enuff he will,—Tha'll wish 'at tha wor onnywhear,Away throo th' Haley Hill.
Ditherum Dump.
Ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump,An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet,On his rig he'd a varry respectable hump,An his nooas end wor ruddy an breet.His een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed,An his clooas he could don at a jump;An th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed,Wor mi naybor old Ditherum Dump.
Ditherum Dump he lived behund th' pump,An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet;An he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect,An blow me, if aw think 'at its reet!
Yo mun know this old Ditherum lived bi hissen,For he nivver had met wi' a wife;An th' lasses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men,For he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life.But he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold,An he called hissen "Jolly old trump!"An he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old,Still ther's lots wod bi Mistress Dump."
Ditherum Dump,—Jolly old trump!Tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet,Yet ther's monny a lass wod be fain o' mi brass,For mi guineas are bonny an breet.
Soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old,Wi' noa woman to sweeten his life;Till one day a smart lass chonced his winder to pass.An he cried, "That's the wench for my wife!"Soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold,An he axt her this question reight plump;"Tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old,Will ta come an be my Mistress Dump?"
"For Mistress Dump shall have gold in a lump,If tha'll tak me for better or worse;"Soa shoo says, "Awm yor lass, if yo'll leeav me yor brass,An aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse."
Soa Ditherum Dump an this young lass gate wed,An th' naybors cried, "Shame! Fie,—for—shame!"But shoo cared net a button for all at they sed,For shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game.Then Ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed,An he left her as rich as a Jew,An shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead,An shoo went into black for him too.
Nah, Mistress Dump, soa rooasy an plump,In a carriage gooas ridin up th' street;An th' lasses sin then all luk aght for old men,An they're crazy to wed an old freet.
My Polly.
My Polly's varry bonny,Her een are black an breet;They shine under her raven locks,Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.
Her little cheeks are like a peach,'At th' sun has woo'd an missed;Her lips like cherries, red an sweet,Seem moulded to be kissed.
Her breast is like a drift o' snow,Her little waist's soa thin,To clasp it wi' a careless armWod ommost be a sin.
Her little hands an tiny feet,Wod mak yo think shoo'd beenBrowt up wi' little fairy fowkTo be a fairy queen.
An when shoo laffs, it saands as ifA little crystal spring,Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks,Screened by an angel's wing.
It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low,One feels it forms a partOv what yo love, an yo can hearIts echoes in yor heart.
It isn't likely aw shall win,An wed soa rich a prize;But ther's noa tellin what strange thingsMan may do, if he tries.
Love one Another.
Let's love one another, it's better bi far;Mak peace wi yor Brother—it's better nor war!Life's rooad's rough enuff,—let's mak it mooar smooth,Let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love.Ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim,Ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim;Ther's want an misfortun,—ther's crime an ther's sin;Let's feight 'em wi Love,—for Love's sarten to win.
Give yor hand,—a kind hand,—to yor brother i' need,Dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed,—Nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight,For, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight.Dooant set up as judge,—it's a dangerous plan,Luk ovver his failins,—he's nobbut a man;Suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,'What might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place?
Fowk praich abaat 'Charity,'—'pity the poor,'But turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door;—"Indiscriminate Charity's hurtful," they say,"We hav'nt got riches to throw em away!"Noa! but if that Grand Book,—th' Grandest Book ivver writ,(An if ther's a true Book aw think at that's it,)Says "What yo have done to th' leeast one o' theasYo did unto Me;"—Reckon that if yo pleeas.
Awm nooan findin fault,—yet aw cant help but seeHa some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee;They grooan "it's a pity;—Poverty is a curse!"But they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse.Ther's few fowk soa poor, but they could if they wod,Do summat for mankind.—Do summat for God.It wor Jesus commanded 'To love one another,'Ther's no man soa lost but can claim thee as Brother.
Then let us each one, do what little we can,To help on to comfort a less lucky man;Remember, some day it may fall to thy lotTo feel poverty's grip, spite o' all at tha's got.But dooant help another i' hooaps at some day.Tha'll get it all back.—Nay, a thaasand times Nay!Be generous an just and wi th' futer ne'er bother;—Tha'll nivver regret bein a friend to thi Brother.
Dick an Me.
Two old fogies,—Dick an me,—Old, an grey as grey can be.A'a,-but monny a jolly spreeWe have had;—An tha ne'er went back o' me;—Bonny lad!
All thi life, sin puppy daysWe've been chums:—tha knows mi ways;—An noa matter what fowk says,On we jog.'Spite what tricks dame Fortun plays,—Tha'rt my dog.
Th' world wod seem a dreary spot,—All mi joys wod goa to pot;—Looansum be mi little cot,Withaat thee;A'a, tha knows awst freeat a lotIf tha'd to dee.
Once on a time we rammeld farO'er hills an dales, an rugged scar;Whear fowk, less ventersum, ne'er darTo set ther feet;An nowt wor thear awr peace to mar;—Oh, it wor sweet!
But nah, old chap, thi limbs are stiff;—Tha connot run an climb—but ifTha wags thi tail,—why, that's eniffTo cheer me yet;An th' fun we've had o'er plain an cliff,Awst ne'er forget.
If aw, like Burns, could sing thi praise;Could touch the strings to tune sich lays—Tha'd be enshrined for endless daysI' deathless song;But Fate has will'd it otherways.Yet, love is strong.
Blest be that heart 'at finds i' meWhat nubdy else could ivver see;—Summat to love.—Aye! even thee,Tha knows its true;We've shared booath wealth an poverty,An meean to do.
When fowk wi kindly hearts aglow,Say, "Poor old fogies," they dooant know'At all they own is far belowThy worth to me;An all the wealth at they could showWod ne'er tempt thee,
Time's creepin on,—we wait a chonce,When we shall quit life's mazy donee;But, please God! Tak us booath at once,Old Dick an me;When's time to quit,—why—that announceWhen best suits Thee.
Briggate at Setterdy Neet.
Sin Leeds wor a city it puts on grand airs,An aw've noa wish to bother wi' others' affairs;'At they've mich to be praad on aw freely admit,But aw think thier's some things they mud alter a bit.They've raised some fine buildings 'at's worth lookin at,—They're a credit to th' city, thers noa daat o' that;But ther's nowt strikes a stranger soa mich as a seetO'th' craad 'at's i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Aw've travelled a bit i' booath cities an taans,An aw've oft seen big craads when they've stept aght o' baands;—Well,—excitement sometimes will lead fowk astray,When they dooant meean owt wrang, but just rollikin play,But Leeds is a licker,—for tumult an din,—For bullies an rowdies an brazzen-faced sin.Aw defy yo to find me another sich street,—As disgraceful, as Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Poleecemen are standin i' twos an i' threes,But they must be stooan blinnd to what other fowk sees;It must be for ornaments they've been put thear,—It cant be nowt else, for they dooant interfere.Young lads who imagine it maks 'em seem menIf they hustle an shaat and mak fooils o' thersen.Daycent fowk mun leeav th' cawsey for th' middle o'th' streetFor its th' roughs at own Briggate at Setterdy neet.
An if yo've a heart 'at can feel, it must acheWhen yo hear ther faal oaths an what coorse jests they make;Yet once they wor daycent an wod be soa still,But they've takken th' wrang turnin,—they're gooin daan hill.Them lasses, soa bonny, just aght o' ther teens,Wi' faces an figures 'at's fit for a queen's.What is it they're dooin? Just watch an yo'll see 't,What they're hawkin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.
They keep sendin praichers to th' heathen an sich,But we've heathen at hooam at require 'em as mich:Just luk at that craad at comes troopin along,Some yellin aght th' chorus o'th' new comic song;Old an young,—men an wimmen,—some bummers, some swells,Turned aght o' some dnnkin an singin room hells;—They seek noa dark corners, they glory i'th' leet,This is Briggate,—their Briggate, at Setterdy neet.
Is it axin too mich ov "the powers that be,"For a city's main street from sich curse to be free?Shall Morality's claims be set all o' one side,Sich a market for lewdness an vice to provide?Will that day ivver come when a virtuous lass,Alone, withaat insult, in safety may pass?Its time for a change, an awm langin to see 't,—A respectable Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Them well-meeanin parents, at hooam at ther ease,Are oft wilfully blind to sich dangers as theas;Their sons an their dowters are honest an pure,—That may be,—an pray God it may ivver endure.But ther's noa poor lost craytur, but once on a time,Wor as pure as ther own an wod shudder at crime.The devil is layin his snares for ther feet,—An they're swarmin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Awr Annie.
Saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een?That's awr Annie.Shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,'Shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen;Shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo,—Shoo does just what shoo likes to do,—But then shoo's loved,—an knows it too;—That's awr Annie.
If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,—That's awr Annie.Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade,Shoo puts all others into th' shade.At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry,An nivver give a reason why:Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy;That's awr Annie.
Roamin throo meadows green an sweet,That's awr Annie;Trippin away wi' fairy feet,Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet;Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caarsDeckin her golden curls wi' flaars;Singin like happy burd for haars,That's awr Annie.
Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit,That's awr Annie;—But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit,Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit.But could aw have mi way i' this,Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,—Th' same innocent an artless miss,That's awr Annie.
Child ov mi old age, dearest, best!That's awr Annie;Cloise to mi weary bosom prest,Far mooar nor others aw feel blest;—Jewels an gold are nowt to me,For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee,Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me,Unless it's Annie.
Peter Prime's Principles.
"Sup up thi gill, owd Peter Prime,Tha'st have a pint wi' me;It's worth a bob at onny timeTo have a chat wi' thee.Aw like to see thi snowy hair,An cheeks like apples ripe,—Come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer,Draw up, an leet thi pipe.Tho' eighty years have left ther trace,Tha'rt hale an hearty yet,An still tha wears a smilin face,As when th' furst day we met.Pray tell me th' saycret if tha canWhat keeps thi heart soa leet,An leeavs thi still a grand owd man,At we're all praad to meet?"
"Why lad, my saycret's plain to see,An th' system isn't hard;Just live a quiet life same as me,An tha'll win th' same reward.Be honest i' thi dealins, lad,That keeps a easy mind;Shun all thi conscience says is bad,An nivver be unkind.If others laff becoss tha sticksTo what tha knows is reight,Why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricksPrevent thee keepin straight.If blessed wi' health, an strong to workDooant envy them at's rich;If duty calls thi nivver shirk,Tha'rt happier far nor sich.Contentment's better wealth nor gold,An labor sweetens life,—Ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old,Like idleness an strife.Dooant tawk too mich, but what tha saysBe sewer it's allus true;An let thi ways be honest ways,An that'll get thi throo.If tha's a wife, pray dooant forgetShoo's flesh an blooid like thee;Be kind an lovin, an aw'll betA helpmate true shoo'll be.Dooant waste thi brass i' rants an sprees,Or maybe when tha'rt old,—Wi' body bent an tott'rin knees,Tha'll be left aght i'th' cold.Luk at th' breet side o' ivverythingAn varry sooin tha'll see,Whear providence has placed thi,Is whear tha owt to be.Dooant live as if this world wor all,For th' time will come someday,When that grim messenger will call,An tha mun goa away.Tha'll nivver need to quake or fear,If tha carries aght this plan,An them tha's left behind shall hear'Thear lies an honest man.'"
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Just a word i' thi ear,—Aw hooap we shall net disagree;But aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year,At tha seems a big humbug to me.
We know at tha brings us glad tidins ov Spring,An for that art entitled to thanks;But tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing,An tha plays some detestable pranks.
Too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel,Tha lives but a poor vagrant life;An thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell,Shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife.
Shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest,An shirks what's her duty to do;Noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast,Ov this selfish, hard-hearted Cuckoo.
Some other poor burd mun attend to her young,An work hard to find 'em wi' grubs,An all her reward, is to find befooar longAt her foster child treeats her wi' snubs.
Tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind'At ruffles thi feathers a bit,Yo gather together an all i' one mindTurn yor tails,—fly away, an forget.
Ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base,They dooant care what comes or what gooas;If they can just manage to live at ther ease,Ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas,
Cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,—Aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to Part;—An i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet,Tha'rt a humbug!—That's just what tha art.
Fowk Next Door.
Said Mistress Smith to Mistress Green,Aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit;Twelve year i' this same haase we've been,An should be stoppin yet,I'th' same old spot, we thowt to spendIf need be twelve year mooar;But all awr comfort's at an end,Sin th' fowk moved in next door.
Yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea,All th' years at aw've been here;An fowk's affairs are nowt to me,—Aw nivver interfere.We've had gooid naybors all this while,—All honest fowk tho' poor;But aw can't tolerate sich styleAs they put on next door.
Aw dooant know whear they get ther brass,It's little wark they do;—Ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lassIs gaddin raand th' day throo.They dress as if they owned a mint,Throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat,Noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint,But aw've nowt to do wi' that.
Ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat,An sometimes smooks cigars!—An owd clay pipe or sich as thatIs gooid enuff for awrs.When th' mistress stirs shoo has to rideI' cabs or else i'th' buss;But aw mun walk or caar inside;Ov coorse that's nowt to us.
Aw wonder if they've paid ther rent?Awr landlord's same as theirs;If we should chonce to owe a cent,He'll put th' bums in he swears.An th' butcher wodn't strap us mait,Noa, net if we'd to pine,Aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight,But it's noa affair o' mine.
One can't help havin thowts yo know,When one meets sich a case;An nivver sin we lived i'th' rowDid such like things tak place.Wi' business when it isn't mine,Aw nivver try to mell,An if they want to cut a shineThey're like to pleas thersel.
But stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,—An pride will have a fall.Aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried,Aw wish aw could, that's all!Aw dunnot envy 'em a bit,Aw'm quite content, tho' poor,But one on us will ha to flit,Us or them fowk next door.
Dad's Lad.
Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet,Runnin raand throo morn to neet;Banishin mi mornin's nap,—Little bonny, noisy chap,—But aw can't find fault yo see,—For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.
He loves his mother withaat daat,Tho' shoo gies him monny a claat;An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad,"Which ov coorse maks mother mad;Then he snoozles on her knee,For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.
He's a bother aw'll admit,But he'll alter in a bit;An when older grown, maybe,He'll a comfort prove to me,An mi latter days mak glad,For aw know he's Daddy's lad.
If he's aght o' sect a minnit,Ther's some mischief, an he's in it,When he's done it then he'll flee;An for shelter comes to me.What can aw do but shield my lad?For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.
After a day's hard toil an care,Sittin in mi rockin chair;Nowt mi wearied spirit charms,Like him nestlin i' mi arms,An noa music is as sweet,As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.
Willie's Weddin.
A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hearTha's won a wife at last;Tha'll have a happier time next year,Nor what tha's had i'th' past.If owt can lend this life a charm,Or mak existence sweet,It is a lovin woman's armCurled raand yor neck at neet.
An if shoo's net an angel,Dooant grummel an find fault,For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll findAre seldom worth ther salt.They're far too apt to flee away,To spreead ther bonny wings;They'd nivver think o'th' weshin dayNor th' duties wifehood brings.
A wife should be a woman,An if tha's lucky been;Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass,Is equal to a Queen.For if her heart is true to thee,An thine to her proves true,—Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies,An tha need nivver rue.
Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes,When mooar inclined to sware;But recollect, no precious thingsBring joy unmixed wi' care.An when her snarlin turns to smiles,An bitterness to bliss,Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles,An mak up wi' a kiss.
Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil,An thy superior witWill allus win, an keepin cooilTha'll triumph in a bit.Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' theeAn holds thi in Love's tether,Well, nivver heed,—they best agreeWhen two fooils mate together.
Somdy's Chonce.
What's a poor lass like me to do,'At langs for a hooam ov her own?Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too,An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown.Aw want nawther riches nor style,Just a gradely plain felly will do;But aw'm waitin a varry long whileAn ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.
But th' trubble's just this,—let me tell,What aw want an will have if aw can,To share wedded life wi' misel,Is a man 'at's worth callin a man.But Harry's as stiff as a stoop,An Jack, onny lass wod annoy,—Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop,An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.
If caarin at th' hob ov a neet,Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil;Aw should order him aght o' mi seet,Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil.His wage,—what it wor,—couldn't bringJoy enuff to mak up for life's pains,If aw fan misen teed to a thing,At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.
"But ther's love," yo may say,—Hi that's it!But aw nivver could love a machine;An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit,Net if he could mak me a queen.Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong,An honest, truehearted an kind,But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along,Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.
Soa Harry will ha to be seckt,For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line;As for Jack,—he could nivver expectTo win sich a true heart as mine.Ther's lasses enuff to be had,'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy,They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad,Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.
Aw dooant want to spend all mi life,Like a saar, neglected old maid;Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife,Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade.Soa if onny young chap wants a mate,Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich,If he's getten some sense in his pate,Aw'm his chonce.—An he need'nt have mich.
To a True Friend.
Here'sa song to mi brave old friend,A friend who has allus been true;His day's drawin near to its end,When he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do.His teeth have quite wasted away,He's grown feeble an blind o' one ee,His hair is all sprinkled wi' gray,But he's just as mich thowt on bi me.
When takkin a stroll into th' taan,He's potterin cloise at mi heels;Noa matter whearivver aw'm baan,His constancy nivver once keels.His feyts an his frolics are o'er,But his love nivver offers to fail;An altho' some may fancy us poor,They could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail.
If th' grub is sometimes rayther rough,An if prospects for better be dark;He nivver turns surly an gruff,Or shows discontent in his bark.Ther's nubdy can tice him away,—He owns but one maister,—that's me,He seems to know all 'at aw say,An maks th' best ov his lot, what it be.
Aw've towt him a trick, nah an then,Just when it has suited mi whim;But aw'm foorced to admit to misen,At aw've leearned far mooar lessons throo him.He may have noa soul to be saved,An when life ends i' this world he's done;But aw wish aw could say aw'd behavedHawf as weel, when my life's journey's run.
Yo may call it a fooilish consait,—But to me he's soa faithful an dear,'At whativver mi futer estate,Aw'st feel looansum if Dick isn't thear.But if foorced to part, once for all,An his carcase to worms aw mun give,His mem'ry aw oft shall recall,For he nivver can dee wol aw live.
Warmin Pan.
That old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face,Has hung thear for monny a day;'Twor mi Gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place,If we tuk th' owd utensil away.
We ne'er use it nah,—but aw recollect th' time,When at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks;An ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine,For they sed it wornt meant for young fowks.
When old Gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest,An mi mother coom in for all th' lot;An shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest,An shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot.
Aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff,Things willn't goa long on th' old plan;Th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff,An mak gam o' mi old warmin pan.
But aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet,An aw seem to live ovver once mooar;Them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet,An aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar.
Aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day,An aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit;But aw've this consolation,—aw think aw may say,Aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit.
It may be Soa.
This world's made up ov leet an shade,But some things strange aw mark;One class live all on th' sunny side,Wol others dwell i'th' dark.Wor it intended some should grooap,Battlin with th' world o' care,Wol others full ov joy an hooapHave happiness to spare?
It may be soa,—aw'll net contend,Opinions should be free;—Aw'm nobbut spaikin as a friend,—But it seems that way to me.
Should one class wear ther lives away,To mak another great;Wol all their share will hardly pay,For grub enuff to ait?An is it reight at some should dressI' clooas bedeckt wi' gold,Wol others havn't rags enuff,To keep ther limbs throo th' cold?
It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, &c,
When gazin at th' fine palaces,Whear live the favoured few;Aw cant help wonderin sometimesIf th' inmates nobbut knew,At th' buildins next to their's i' sizeAre workhaases for th' poor,An if they'd net feel some surpriseAt th' misery raand ther door?
It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, &c.
Sometimes aw wonder what chaps thinkWhen shiverin wi' th' cold,Abaat th' brass at they've spent i' drink,Whear th' landlords caant ther gold.They couldn't get a shillin lent,To buy a bit o' breead,Whear all ther wages have been spent,—They'd get kickt aght asteead.
It may be soa,—aw'll net contend, &c.
Aw wonder if they'll leearn some day,At th' best friend they can find,When th' shop's shut daan, an stopt ther pay,Is ther own purse snugly lined?Aw wonder, will th' time ivver come,When th' darkest day is done,When they can sing of Home Sweet Home.An know they've getten one?
It may be soa, aw hooap it will,For then we'st all be free;When ivvery man's his own best friend,—Gooid by to poverty.
A Safe Investment.
Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest,Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce!Aw'll gie yo a tip,—one o'th' best,Whear ther's profit an safety for once.Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust,Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait,—Depend on't its one yo can trust,For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight.
Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar,—But mooast fowk are apt to forget;—Yet yo know if yo give to the poor,At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt.Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face,An its true too,—believe it or net,—It's a bargain God made i' this case,An He'll nivver back aght on't,—yo bet.
All th' wealth yo may have can't preventGrim Deeath commin to yo some day;An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent,When yor time comes for gooin away.But yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart,An for what yo leeav care net a straw,Earth's losses will cause yo noa smart,If i' Heaven yo've summat to draw.
Its useless to pray an to praich,—Yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd;Put summat to ait i' ther raich,An then lectur em all yo've a mind;Ther's poor folk on ivvery hand,Yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry;—A wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land,Which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye.
Yo can't expect chaps who have wives,An childer at's clammin i'th' cold,To be patient an quiet all ther lives,When they see others rollin i' gold.When th' workers are beggin for jobs,An th' helpless are starvin to deeath,It's just abaat time some o'th' nobsWor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth.
If ther duties they still will neglect,An ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue,They may find when they little expect,'At they've getten thersen in a stew.Yo may trample a worm wol it turns,—An ther's danger i' starvin a rat;—A man's passion inflamed wol it burns,Is a danger mooar fearful nor that.
But why should ther be sich distress,When ther's plenty for all an to spare?Sewerly them at luck's blest can't do lessNor to help starvin fowk wi' a share.Rich harvests yo'll win from the seedWhen theas welcome words fall on yor ear,—"What yo did to th' leeast brother i' need,Yo did unto Me;—Come in here."
Red Stockin.
Shoo wor shoeless, an shiverin, an weet,—Her hair flyin tangled an wild:Shoo'd just been browt in aght o'th street,Wi drink an mud splashes defiled.Th' poleece sargent stood waitin to hearWhat charge agean her wod be made,He'd scant pity for them they browt thear,To be surly wor pairt ov his trade."What name?" an he put it i'th' book,—An shoo hardly seemed able to stand;As shoo tottered, he happened to luksaw summat claspt in her hand."What's that? Bring it here right away!You can't take that into your cell;""It's nothing." "Is that what you say?Let me have it and then I can tell.""Nay, nay! yo shall nivver tak this!It's dearer nor life is to me!Lock me up, if aw've done owt amiss,But aw'll stick fast to this wol aw dee!""No nonsense!" he sed wi a frown,An two officers speedily came;Shoo seem'd to have soberer grown,But shoo fowt like a fiend, just the same."Is it money or poison?" he sed,—An unfolded it quickly to see;When sum in at fell aght,—soft an red,An it rested across ov his knee.'Twor a wee babby's stockin,—just one,But his hard face grew gentle and mild,As he sed in his kindliest tone,"This stockin was worn by your child?""Yes, sir,—an its all at aw haveTo remind me ov when aw wor pure,For mi husband an child are i'th' grave;—Yo'll net tak it throo me, aw'm sewer!""No, not for the world would I takeYour treasure round which love has grown;Pray keep it for poor baby's sake;—I once lost a child of my own."And he folded it up wi much careAs he lukt at her agonized face;—A face at had once been soa fair,But nah bearin th' stamp ov disgrace."You seem soberer now,—do you thinkYou could find your way home if you tried?""Oh! yes, sir! God help me! It's DrinkAt has browt me to this, sir," shoo cried."God help you! Be sure that He will;If you seek Him, He'll come to your aid;He is longing and waiting there stillTo receive you;—none need be afraid.The mother whose heart still retainsThe love for her babe pure and bright,May have err'd, but the hope still remainsThat she yet will return. Now, Good night."
—————
With his kindly words still in her ears,An that little red sock in her breast;Shoo lukt up to Heaven through her tears;An her faith, in Christ's love did the rest.
Plain Jane.
Plain Jane—plain Jane;This wor owd Butterworth's favourite strain:For wealth couldn't buy,Such pleasur an joy.As he had wi his owd plain Jane.Ther wor women who oft,Maybe, thinkin him soft,Who endeavoured to 'tice him away,But tho ther breet een,An ther red cheeks had beenQuite enuffto lead others astray,—All ther efforts wor lost,For he knew to his cost,'At th' pleasur they promised browt pain,Soa he left em behind,Wol he went hooam to find,Purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain Jane.
Plain Jane,—plain Jane,—Owd Butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain:Shoo wor hearty an strong,An could troll aght a song,An trubbles shoo held i' disdain,He'd not sell her squintFor all th' brass i'th' mint,Nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas;He's no rival to fear,Soa he keeps i' gooid cheer,An cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas.Cats are all gray at neet,Soa when puttin aght th' leet,As he duckt under th' warm caanterpain,He sed, "Beauty breeds strifeOft between man an wife,But it ne'er trubbles me nor awr Jane."
Plain Jane,—plain Jane,—To cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain;Shoo wod cook, stew or bake,Wesh and scaar for his sake,An could doctor his ivvery pain.Tho his wage wor but smallShoo ne'er grummeld at all,An if th' butter should chonce to run short;Her cake shoo'd ait dry,If axt why? shoo'd reply,Becoss aw know weel ther's nowt for't.But th' harstun wor cleean,Tho th' livin wor meean,An her karacter hadn't a stain;An owd Butterworth knows,As his bacca he blows,Ther's war wimmen ith' world nor owd Jane.
Cash V. Cupid.
Aw dooat on a lass wi' a bonny face,Wi' a twinkle ov fun in her ee;—An aw like a lass 'at's some style an grace,An aw'm fond o' one winnin an shy.An ther's one 'at's a lot o' curly hair,An a temptinly dimpled chin,An one 'at's sedate an cold tho' fair,But shoo wod'nt be easy to win.
Ther's one 'at's a smile ivvery time we meet,An ther's one 'at seems allus sad;Yet ther's sum mat abaat 'em all seems sweet,—Just a sum mat aw wish aw had.But somha aw connot mak up mi mind,Which one to seek for a wife;An its wise to be careful if love is blind,For a weddin oft lasts for a life.
Ther's one 'at has nawther beauty nor wit,—Just a plain lukkin, sensible lass;But shoo's one thing 'at adds to her vally a bit,—An that is 'at shoo's plenty o' brass.An beauty will fade an een will grow dim,Ther's noa lovin care can help that;An th' smartest young woman, tho' stylish an slim,May i' time grow booath clumsy an fat.
Soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by,For a workin chap must be a crank,'At sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye,Nor in a snug sum in a bank.Some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this,An its nowt but her brass 'at aw want,Well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss,If they can,—why, they may,—but aw cant.
Mary's Bonnet.
Have yo seen awr Mary's bonnet?It's a stunner,—noa mistak!Ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it,An a feather daan her back.Yollo ribbons an fine laces,An a cock-a-doodle-doo,An raand her bonny face isA string o' pooasies blue.
When shoo went to church last Sundy,Th' parson could'nt find his text;An fat old Mistress GrundySed, "A'a, Mary! pray what next!"Th' lads wink'd at one another,—Th' lasses snikered i' ther glee,An th' whooal o'th' congregationHad her bonnet i' ther ee.
Sooin th' singers started singin,But they braik daan one bi one,For th' hymn wor on "The flowersOf fifty summers gone."But when they saw awr Mary,They made a mullock on it,For they thowt 'at all them flaarsHad been put on Mary's bonnet.
Then th' parson sed mooast kindly,"Ther wor noa offence intended;But flaar shows wor aght o' place,I'th' church whear saints attended.An if his errin sister wishedTo find her way to glory;Shoo should'nt carry on her heead,A whooal consarvatory."
Nah, Mary is'nt short o' pluck,—Shoo jumpt up in a minnit,Shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church,An ivverybody in it."Parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare,—Nowt in it an nowt on it;Suppooas yo put some flaars thear,Like theas 'at's in my bonnet."
Prime October.
Ther's some fowk like watter,An others like beer;It doesn't mich matter,If ther heead is kept clear.But to guzzle an swill,As if aitin an drinkinWor all a chap lives for,Is wrang to my thinkin.
Ivvery gooid thing i' lifeShould be takken i' reason;Even takkin a wifeShould be done i'th' reight season.Tho' i' that case to giveAdvice is noa use,Aw should ne'er win fowk's thanksBut might get some abuse.
But if ther's a fault'At we owt to luk ovver,It's when a chap's temptedWi' "prime old October."An to cheer up his spiritsAs nowt else on earth could,He keeps testin its merits,An gets mooar nor he should.
Ov coorse he'll be blamedIf he gets ovver th' mark;An noa daat he'll feel shamedWhen he's throo wi' his lark.An he'll promise "it nivverShall happen agean,"Tho' he's feelin all th' timeJust as dry as a bean.
But who can resist,When it sparkles an shines;An his nooas gets a whifAt's mooar fragrant nor wines?Aw'd forgie a teetotallerAt sich times, if he fell;—For aw know ha it is,'Coss aw've been thear mysel.
Old Dave to th' New Parson.
"Soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo?Well, awm fain to see yo've come;Yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst,But mak yorsen at hooam.
Aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me,If aw tell what's in mi noddle,Remember, if we dooant agree,It's but an old man's twaddle.
But aw might happen drop a hint,'At may start yo to thinkin;Awd help yo if aw saw mi way,An do it too, like winkin.
Awm net mich up o' parsons,—Ther's some daycent ens aw know;They're smart enuff at praichin,But at practice they're too slow.
For dooin gooid nooan can denyTher chonces are mooast ample;If they'd give us fewer precepts,An rayther moor example.
We need a friend to help waik sheep,Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;—Ther's a big responsibilityRests on a parson's shoulders.
But oft ther labor's all in vain,Noa matter ha persistent;Becoss ther taichin an ther livesAre hardly quite consistent.
Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in God,When bad is growing worse;An nowt abate ther trust, unlessIt chonce to touch ther purse.
They say, "Who giveth to the poor,Lends to the Lord," but yet,They all seem varry anxious,Net to get the Lord in debt.
But wi my fooilish nooationsMayhap yo'll net agree,—Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,—But it seems that way to me.
If yo hear a clivver sarmon,Yor attention it command's,If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as whiteAs what he keeps his hands.
Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways,An too mich affectation;They work i'th' vinyard a few days,Then hint abaat vacation.
He has to have a holidayBecause he's worked soa hard;—Well, aw allus think 'at laborIs desarvin ov reward.
What matters, tho' his little flockA shepherd's care is wantin:Old Nick may have his run o'th' foldWol he's off galavantin.
Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one,Yo seem a gradely sooart;But if yo' th' Gospel armour don,Yo'll find it isn't spooart.
Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright,For a mess ov worldly pottage:But spend less time i'th' squire's hallAn moor i'th' poor man's cottage.
Point aght the way an walk in it,They'll follow, one bi one,An when yo've gained yor journey's end,Yo'll hear them words, "Well done."
A Christian soldier has to be,Endurin, bold an brave;Strong in his faith he'll sewerly win,As sewer as my name's Dave."
Tom Grit.
He'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e,An his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be;For each one he met he'd a sally o' wit,For a jovjal soul wor this same Tom Grit.He climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride,For he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried;But he had noa fear, for he knew he could driveAs weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive.Soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand,An prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned;But some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave,For they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave.It set off wi' a jerk when Tom touched it wi' th' whip,But his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip,An he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait,But it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight.Two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on,An ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none;Soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin,—Then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in.It had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed,An it plunged an reared madly,—an then as if crazedIt dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse,Woll Tom tried his utmost to steady his course.Wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tightHe strained ivvery muscle,—but saw wi' affright'At the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd,Wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd,"Let it goa! Let it goa!" they cried aght as it pass'd,An Tom felt his strength givin way varry fast;His hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check,But he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck.That jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit,An new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to Tom Grit,An tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt,Th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt.Then chaps went to hold it, an help poor Tom daan,For Tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan;"Tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght,Thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!"But Tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled,"I'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child,An aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan,For he's all th' lad we have. Have yo nooan o' yer own?"
Th' Demon o' Debt.
We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil,An pity his sorrowful case;But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil,An noa mooar have that trubble to face.But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger,Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set,An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger,Be careful to keep aght o' debt.
For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity,An when once yor fast in his grip,Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty,But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip.He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst,An then deeper an deeper yo get,Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst,An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.
Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care,Yo wearily wear neet away;An yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair,An yo tremmel at th' commin o' day.Yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street,An yo shun friends yo once gladly met,The burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't;—That soul-crushin burden o' debt.
Tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble,An let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan;Tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double,An yo'll hold up yor heead like a man,Better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee,Till yo're able a new suit to get,Nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be,To be dog'd wi' that Demon o' Debt.
Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.
Aw like to see a lot o' ladsAll frolicsome an free,An hear ther noisy voices,As they run an shaat wi' glee;But if ther's onny sooart o' ladAw like better nor another,'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad,It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
He may be rayther dull at schooil,Or rayther slow at play;He may be rough an quarrelsome,—Mischievous in his way;He may be allus in a scrape,An cause noa end o' bother;But ther's summat gooid an honestIn the lad 'at loves his Mother.
He may oft do what isn't reight,But conscience will keep prickin;He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief,Nor what he'd fear a lickin.Her trubbled face,—her tearful een,Her sighs shoo tries to smother,Are coals ov foir on the heeadOv th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
When years have passed, an as a manHe faces toil an care;An whear his mother used to sitIs but a empty chair;—When bi his side sits her he loves,Mooar dear nor onny other,He still will cherish, love an bless,The mem'ry ov his Mother.
A guardian angel throo life's rooad,Her spirit still will be;An in the shadow ov her wings,He'll find security.A better husband he will prove,A father or a brother;For th' lad 'at maks the noblest man,Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother.
Matilda Jane.
Matilda Jane wor fat an fair,An nobbut just sixteen;Shoo'd ruddy cheeks an reddish hair,An leet blue wor her een.Shoo weighed abaat two hundred pund,Or may be rayther mooar,Shoo had to turn her sidewaysWhen shoo went aght o'th' door.
Shoo fairly dithered as shoo walked,Shoo wor as brooad as long;But allus cheerful when shoo tawk'd,An liked to sing a song;An some o'th' songs shoo used to sing,Aw weel remember yet;Aw thowt it sich a funny thing,Shoo pickt soa strange a set,
"Put me in my little bed,"Aw knew they couldn't do;For onny bed to put her in,Must be big enuff for two."Aw wish aw wor a burd," shoo sang,Aw nivver could tell why,—For it wod be a waste o' wingsBecoss shoo couldn't fly.
"I'd choose to be a Daisy,"Aw didn't wonder at,For it must ha made her crazyTo hug that looad o' fat.Then "Flitting like a Fairy;"—To hear it gave me pain,For ther wor novvt soa airyAbaat Matilda Jane.
Last time aw heeard her singin,Shoo sang "You'll remember me,"An mi arm crept pairtly raand her,As aw held her on mi knee.Ther's noa fear aw shall forget her,Tho' shoo's ne'er set thear agean,But if shoo will, aw'll let her,For aw like Matilda Jane.
Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.
At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack,No daat yo knew him weel;His cheeks wor red, his een wor black,His limbs wor strong as steel.His curly hair wor black as jet,His spirits gay an glad,An monny a lass her heart had setOn Jack the Wibsey lad.
Sal Simmons kept a little shop,An bacca seld, an spice,An traitle drink, an ginger pop,An other things as nice.Shoo wor a widow, fat an fair,An allus neat an trim;An Jack seem'd fairly stuck on her;An shoo wor sweet on him.
But other lasses thowt they hadA claim on Jack's regard;A widow to win sich a lad,They thowt wor very hard;They called her a designin jade,An one an all cried "Shame!"But Sally kept on wi her trade,An Jack went just the same.
One neet when commin hooam throo wark,They stopt him on his way,An pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark,To say what they'd to say.They sed they thowt a widow shouldLet lasses have a share,An net get ivvery man shoo could;They didn't think it fair,
Jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat,His face wor burnin red;His heart wor touched,—noa daat o' that,But this wor what he sed."Awd like to wed yo ivvery one,An but for th' law aw wod,But weel yo know if th' job wor done,They'd put me into quod."
"As aw can mak but one mi wife,—Sal Simmons suits me weel;For aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life,An dooan't know ha awst feel.But if aw wed a widow, anAw fail mi pairt to play;Shoo'll varry likely understand,An put me into th' way.
Work Lads!
Work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor;If able, show willin,—ther's plenty to do,Ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre,But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.
Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin,An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift;For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin,An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.
Ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on,If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife;A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on,Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.
But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter,Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat,'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter,An th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat.
Do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power,But i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view;'At the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower,An pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do.
Bonny Yorksher.
Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi!Hard an rugged tho' thi face is;Ther's an honest air abaat thi,Aw ne'er find i' other places.Ther's a music i' thi lingo,Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley,As a drop ov Yorksher stingoWarms an cheers a body's bally.Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter,Nor thy modest moorland blossom,Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeterNor on thy green mossy bosom.Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather,Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellinHand i' hand wi' Peace, togetherTales ov sweet contentment tellin.On the scroll ov fame an glory,Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten;History tells noa grander stooary,An it thrills me as aw listen.Young men blest wi' brain an muscle,Swarm i' village, taan an city,Nah as then prepared to tussle,Wi' the brave, the wise, the witty.An thy lasses,—faithful,—peerless,—Matchless i' ther bloom an beauty,—Modest, lovin, brave an fearless,Praad ov Hooam an firm to Duty.Aw've met nooan i' other placesCan a cannle hold beside 'em;Rich i' charms an winnin graces;—Aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em.Balmy breezes, blow yer mildest!Sun an shaars yer blessins shed!Thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildestSkylarks trill heigh ovverheead!Robin redbreast,—little linnet,Sing yor little songs wi' glee;Till wi' melody each minnit,Makin vocal bush an tree.Wild flaars don yer breetest dresses,Breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale;Stately trees wave heigh yer tresses,Flingin charms o'er hill an dale.Dew fall gently,—an sweet Luna,Keep thy lovin watch till morn;—All unite to bless an prosper,That dear spot whear aw wor born.
Sixty an Sixteen.
We're older nor we used to be,But that's noa reason whyWe owt to mope i' misery,An whine an grooan an sigh.
We've had awr shares o' ups an daans,I' this world's whirligig;An for its favors or its fraansWe needn't care a fig.
Let them, at's enterin on lifeBe worried wi' its cares;We've tasted booath its joys an strife,They're welcome nah to theirs.
To tak things easy owt to beAn old man's futer plan,Till th' time comes when he has to dee,—Then dee as weel's he can.
It's foolish nah to brood an freeat,Abaat what might ha been;At sixty we dooant see wi' th' een,We saw wi at sixteen.
Young shoolders worn't meant to bearOld heeads, an nivver will;Youth had its fling when we wor thear,An soa it will have still.
Aw wodn't live life o'er agean,Unless 'at aw could startQuite free throo knowledge o' this world,Quite free in heead an heart.
That perfect trust 'at childer have,Gives life its greatest charm;Noa wisdom after years can give,Will keep ther hearts as warm.
When nearin th' bottom o' life's hill,If we, when lukkin back,Can see some seeds ov gooid we've sown,Are bloomin on awr track;
Wol th' evil deeds we did shall beAll trampled aght o' seet;Awr journey's end will peaceful be,An deeath itsen be sweet.
Then let's give thanks for mercies past,That've kept awr hearts still green;For thar't just as dear at sixty, lass,As when tha wor sixteen.
Come thi Ways in.
Come thi ways in, an God bless thi, lad!Come thi ways in, for thar't welcome, joy!A'a! tha'rt a shockin young taistrel, lad,But tha artn't as bad as they call thi, doy.
Tha'rt thi father upheeaped an daanthrussen, lad,It's his mother 'at knows what a glaid wor he;—But thi britches' knees are booath brussen, lad,An thi jacket, its raillee a shame to see.
It's weel for thee tha's a gronny, lad,—If it wornt for me tha'd be lost i' muck!Tha'rt wild, but tha'rt better ner monny, lad,An aw think 'at tha'll yet bring thi gronny gooid luck.
Nah, pool up to th' table an dry thi nooas;—(Awd nooan leearn mi appron to onny but thee,)Wol tha'rt fillin thi belly aw'll patch up thi clooas,Then aw'll send thi hooam daycent an cleean tha'll see.
Nah, what are ta dooin wi' th' pussy cat, pray?If tha'll leeav it alooan it'll mell nooan o' thee,Put th' mustard spooin daan! Does ta hear what aw say!Let goa that cat tail! Ha tha aggravates me!
Tha mooant dip thi finger i'th' traitle pot, doy,(Tho' aw reckon tha follers th' example tha's set,)Mothers, nah days, dooan't know ha to train childer, joy,But tha'll heed what thi gronny says,—willn't ta, pet?
A'a, dear! nah tha's upset thi basin o' stew!All ovver thisen an mi cleean scarrd flooar:—Tha clumsy young imp; what next will ta do?Tha'd wear aght job's patience, an twice as mich mooar!
Hold thi din! or aw'll gie thi a taste o' that strap!Tha maks it noa better wi' yellin like that!Come, whisht nah,—'twor nobbut a little mishap;—Nah, whisht,—an tha'll see ha we'll leather yond cat.
Nah, dooan't touch mi thimel or needle an threead;Sit daan like a gooid little child as tha art;Wol aw wipe up this mess, an side th' butter an breead,Then aw'll gie thi a penny to buy thi a tart.
For tha puts me i' mind ov a time long ago,When thi father wor just sich a jockey as thee;An tho' aw'm a widdy, an poor as a crow,Ther'll be allus a bite an a sup for thee.
Tak thi booits off that fender! Tha's made it fair black;Just see ha tha's scratched it! Aw'm sewer it's a sin!Jump into theas clooas an fly hooam in a crack,Or aw'll braik ivvery booan 'at tha has i' thi skin!
An stop hooam, until tha knows ha to behave,Tha'd worrit my life aght i' less nor a wick!Tell thi mother aw'm net gooin to be just a slaveTo a taistrel like thee! soa nah, off tha gooas—Quick!
Horton Tide.
Wor yo ivver at Horton Tide?It wor thear 'at aw won mi bride;An the joy o' mi life,Is mi dear little wife,An we've three little childer beside.