Title: Yorkshire Lyrics Poems written in the Dialect as Spoken in the West Riding of Yorkshire. To which are added a Selection of Fugitive Verses not in the Dialect
Author: John Hartley
Language: English
Produced by Alison Bush
Yorkshire Lyrics.
Poems written in the dialect as spoken in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
To which are added a selection of Fugitive Verses not in the dialect.
By John Hartley,
Author of "Clock Almanack," "Yorkshire Puddin,"
"Yorkshire Tales" &c, &c,
"It has not been my lot to pore
O'er ancient tomes of Classic lore,
Or quaff Castalia's springs;
Yet sometimes the observant eye
May germs of poetry descry
In plain and common things."
London: W. Nicholson & Sons, Limited, 26, Paternoster Square, E. C.
and Albion Works, Wakefield.
Dedication.
To my dear daughter, Annie Sophie,
this collection of dialect verses is dedicated,
as a token of sincere love.
John Hartley. Christmas, 1898.
Contents.
Mi Darling Muse.
To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th.
Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.
Give it 'em Hot.
A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.
Words ov Kindness.
A Brussen Bubble.
Th' Little Stranger.
Th' Traitle Sop.
Once agean Welcome.
Still true to Nell.
Bide thi Time.
A Cold Dooas.
A Jolly Beggar.
Aw Wodn't for all aw Could See.
Come thi Ways!
What is it?
Awst Nivver be Jaylus.
Lamentin' an Repentin'.
Bite Bigger.
Second Thowts.
A Neet when aw've Nowt to do.
Ther's much Expected.
Coortin Days.
Sweet Mistress Moore.
Waivin Mewsic.
Jimmy's Choice.
Old Moorcock.
Th' Short-Timer.
Sol an' Doll.
Their Fred.
Love an' Labor.
Nooan so Bad.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
Peevish Poll.
The Old Bachelor's Story.
Did yo Ivver!
A Quiet Tawk.
Lines, on Startling a Rabbit.
Nivver Heed.
Gronfayther's Days.
Awr Dooad.
Whear Natur Missed it.
That's All.
Mary Hanner's Peanner.
Grondad's Lullaby.
Sixty, Turned, To-day.
That Lad Next Door.
A Summer Shaar.
Awr Lad.
Bonny Mary Ann.
That Christmas Puddin.
A Bad Sooart.
Fairly Weel-off.
A Warnin.
To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester.
Lads an Lasses.
A New Year's Gift.
Matty's Reason.
Uncle Ben.
A Hawporth.
Th' Better Part.
Th' Lesser Evil.
Take Heart!
They all do it.
To Let.
Lost Love. (appeared twice in the paper book)
Drink.
Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.)
Plenty o' Brass.
The New Year's Resolve.
A Strange Stooary.
What Wor it?
Billy Bumble's Bargain.
Aght o' Wark.
That's a Fact.
Babby Burds.
Queen ov Skircoit Green.
Th' Little Black Hand.
My Native Twang.
Sing On.
Shoo's thi Sister.
Another Babby.
To a Roadside Flower.
An Old Man's Christmas Morning.
Settin Off.
To th' Swallow.
A Wife.
Heart Brokken.
Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.
Rejected.
Persevere.
A Pointer.
An Acrostic.
Help Thisen.
Bless 'em!
Act Square.
His Dowter Gate Wed.
All We Had.
Th' First o'th Sooart.
Poor Old Hat.
Done Agean.
What it is to be a Mother.
What they say.
Young Jockey.
Missed his Mark.
When Lost.
Mak a Gooid Start.
Stop at Hooam.
Advice to Jenny.
Jockey an Dolly.
Dooant Forget the Old Fowks.
Soa Bonny.
The Linnet.
Mary Jane.
Aw Dooant Care.
My Lass.
A Gooid Kursmiss Day.
Mi Love's Come Back.
A Wife.
All Tawk.
Aw Can't Tell.
Happen Thine.
Contrasts.
To Mally.
Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.
Try a Smile.
Growin Old.
Gooid Bye, Old Lad.
That Drabbled Brat.
Song for th' Hard Times, (1879.)
Stir thi Lass!
Tother Day.
Happy Sam's Song.
Gradely Weel off.
Is it Reight?
A Yorksher Bite.
Lily's Gooan.
What aw Want.
Latter Wit.
A Millionaire.
Mi Fayther's Pipe.
Let th' Lasses Alooan!
A Breet Prospect.
Missin Yor Way.
Heather Bells.
A Lucky Dog.
My Doctrine.
That Lass.
Mi Old Umberel
What it Comes to.
Hold up yer Heeads.
A Quiet Day.
Lass o'th Haley Hill.
Ditherum Dump.
My Polly.
Love one Another.
Dick an Me.
Briggate at Setterdy Neet.
Awr Annie.
Peter Prime's Principles.
Cuckoo!
Fowk Next Door.
Dad's Lad.
Willie's Weddin.
Somdy's Chonce.
To a True Friend.
Warmin Pan.
It may be Soa.
A Safe Investment.
Red Stockin.
Plain Jane.
Cash V. Cupid.
Mary's Bonnet.
Prime October.
Old Dave to th' New Parson.
Tom Grit.
Th' Demon o' Debt.
Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.
Matilda Jane.
Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.
Work Lads!
Bonny Yorksher.
Sixty an Sixteen.
Come thi Ways in.
Horton Tide.
Mi Old Slippers.
A Friend to Me.
A Pair o' Black Een.
A Screw Lawse.
A Sad Mishap.
If.
A True Tale.
Peter's Prayer.
Mak th' Best Ont.
On Strike.
Be Happy.
Its True.
Natty Nancy.
Fugitive poems.
Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.
Trusting Still.
Shiver the Goblet.
Little Sunshine.
Passing Events.
Those Days have Gone.
I'd a Dream.
To my Harp.
Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.
Alice.
Looking Back.
I Know I Love Thee
Bachelors Quest.
Waiting at the Gate.
Love.
Do your Best and Leave the Rest.
To my Daughter on her Birthday.
Remorse.
My Queen
Now and Then.
The Open Gates.
Blue Bells.
A Song of the Snow
Hide not thy Face.
In my Garden of Roses.
The Match Girl.
De Profundis.
Nettie.
The Dean's Brother.
I Would not Live Alway.
Too Late.
On the Banks of the Calder.
Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.
November's Here.
Mary.
When Cora Died.
The Violet.
Repentant.
Sunset.
Poetry and Prose.
Years Ago.
Somebody's.
Claude.
All on a Christmas Morning.
Once Upon a Time.
Nearing Home.
Those Tiny Fingers.
Lilly-White Hand.
Shut Out.
Charming May.
Who Cares?
Mi Darling Muse.
Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her,
To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better;
An' if aw find aw connot get her
To lend her aid,
Into foorced measure then aw set her,
The stupid jade!
An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly,
Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly,
Place all the blame,—yo'll place it reightly,
Upon her back;
To win her smile aw follow neetly,
Along her track.
Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly,
An let me taste o' melancholy;
But just to spite her awl be jolly,
An say mi say;
Awl fire away another volley
Tho' shoo says "Nay."
We've had some happy times together,
For monny years we've stretched our tether,
An as aw dunnot care a feather
For fowk 'at grummel,
We'll have another try. Aye! whether
We stand or tummel.
Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble,
Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble,
But th' harvest someday may be double,
At least we'll trust it;
An them 'at say it's but a bubble,
We'll leeav to brust it.
To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th.
A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin,
Little daisy!
Pray, whativer wor ta doin?
Are ta crazy?
Winter winds are blowin' yet,—
Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.
Did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee,
An' deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee,
For believe me,
Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares,
Laid to catch thee unawares.
Still aw think it luks a shame,
To tawk sich stuff;
Aw've lost faith, an' tha'll do th' same,
Hi, sooin enuff.
If tha'rt happy as tha art
Trustin' must be th' wisest part.
Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan,
Raand thi dwellin';
They may screen thee when aw've gooanm,
Ther's no tellin';
An' when gentle spring draws near
Aw'll release thee, niver fear.
An' if then thi pretty face,
Greets me smilin';
Aw may come an' sit bith' place,
Time beguilin';
Glad to think aw'd paar to be,
Of some use, if but to thee.
Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.
Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South,
An led a rooamin' life;
Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth,
Aw've shared wi joy an strife;
Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip,
Whativver's come to pass:
But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship,
Has been mi Yorksher Lass.
Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost,
A toy for wind an wave;
Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost,
Aw've thowt noa power could save;
But ivver in the darkest day,
Wi muscles strong as brass,
To some safe port shoo's led the way,—
Mi honest Yorksher Lass.
Shoo's fair,—all Yorksher lasses are,—
Shoo's bonny as the rest,
Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care,
Shoo thinks what is, is best.
Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck,
An it seems as clear as glass,
'At th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck
'At weds a Yorksher Lass.
Ther's oriental beauties, an'
Grand fowk ov ivvery grade,
But when it comes to honest worth,
Shoo puts 'em all ith' shade,
For wi her charms an virtues,
Shoo stands at top o'th' class;
Ther's nooan soa rare as can compare,
Wi a bonny Yorksher Lass,
Then here's to th' Yorksher lasses!
Whearivver they may be;
Ther worth ther's nooan surpasses,
An ther's nooan as brave an free!
If awd to live life o'er ageean,
Awd think misen an ass,
If aw didn't tak for company,
A bonny Yorksher lass.
Give it 'em Hot.
Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!
Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?
Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant
Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?
O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
An honest man still should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin,
An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.
Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested,
An' what they're entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin,
All yo 'at profess others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin,
If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.
A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.
Little childer,—little childer;
Harken to an old man's ditty;
Tho yo live ith' country village,—
Tho yo live ith' busy city.
Aw've a little tale to tell yo,—
One 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,—
It's abaat One who to save yo,
Here amang men made His dwellin.
Riches moor nor yo can fancy,—
Moor nor all this world has in it,—
He gave up becoss He loved yo,
An He's lovin yo this minnit.
All His power, pomp and glory,
Which to think on must bewilder,—
All He left,—an what for think yo?
Just for love ov little childer.
In a common, lowly stable
He wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin,
As if angel's 'een wor peepin
On His face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin.
An one star, like a big lantern,
Shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin,
Saw, an foller'd till it rested
Just aboon whear He wor sleepin.
Then strange music an sweet voices
Seem'd to sing reight aght o' Heaven,
"Unto us a child is born!
Unto us a son is given!"
Then coom wise men thro strange nations,—
Young men an men old an hoary,—
An they all knelt daan befoor Him,
An araand Him shone a glory.
Then a King thowt he wod kill Him,
Tho he reckoned net to mind Him,
But they went to a strange country,
Whear this bad King couldn't find Him.
An He grew up strong and sturdy,
An He sooin began His praichin,
An big craads stood raand to listen,
An they wondered at His taichin.
Then some sed bad things abaat Him,
Called Him names, laft at an jeered Him;—
Sed He wor a base imposter,
For they hated, yet they feeard Him.
Some believed in His glad tidins,—
Saw Him cure men ov ther blindness,—
Saw Him make once-deead fowk livin,
Saw Him full o' love an kindness.
Wicked men at last waylaid Him,
Drag'd Him off to jail and tried Him,
Tho noa fault they could find in Him,
Yet they cursed an crucified Him.
Nubdy knows ha mich He suffered;
But His work on earth wor ended:—
From the grave whear they had laid Him,
Into Heaven He ascended.
Love like His may well bewilder,—
Sinners weel may bow befoor Him;—
Nah He waits for th' little childer,
Up in Heaven whear saints adore Him.
Think when sittin raand yor hearthstun,
An the Kursmiss bells are ringing,
Ha He lived an died at yo may
Join those angels in ther singin.
Words ov Kindness.
'Tis strange 'at fowk will be sich fooils
To mak life net worth livin',
Fermentin' rows, creatin' mooils,
Detractin' an' deceivin'.
To fratch an' worry day an' neet,
Is sewerly wilful blindness,
When weel we know ther's nowt as sweet,
As a few words spoke i' kindness.
Ther is noa heart withaat its grief,
The gayest have some sadness;
But oft a kind word brings relief,
An' sheds a ray ov gladness.
We ought to think of others moor,
Nor ov ther pains be mindless;
We may bring joy to monny a door
Wi' a few words spoke i' kindness.
A peevish spaik, a bitin' jest,
'At may be thowtless spokken,
May be like keen edged dagger prest
Throo some heart nearly brokken.
Then let love be awr rule o' life,
This world's cares we shall find less;
For nowt can put an end to strife,
Like a few words spoke i' kindness.
A Brussen Bubble.
Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
Shoo lived near Woodus Moor;—
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love—and as luck let,
It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
Or one wi better wit.
His name awm net inclined to tell,
But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
Sed Bet, "let's get agate."
"This morn wol darnin socks for thee
This thowt coom i' mi nop,
An do't we will if tha'll agree;—
Let's start a little shop.
We'll sell all sooarts o' useful things
'At ivverybody needs;
Like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins,
An buttons, sooap, an threeds.
An spice for th' childer,—castor oil,
An traitle drink, an pies,
An kinlin wood, an maybe coil,
Fresh yeast an hooks an eyes.
Corn plaisters, Bristol brick, an clay,
Puttates, rewbub an salt;
An if that can't be made to pay,
It willn't be my fault."
"Th' idea's a gooid en," John replied,
"We should ha done 't befoor;
Aw raillee think at if its tried,
We'st neer luk back noa moor.
But whear's th' stock commin throo, mi lass?
That's moor nor aw can tell;
Fowk willn't come an spend ther brass,
Unless yo've stuff to sell."
"Why, wodn't th' maister lend a hand?
Tha knows he's fond o' me;
A five paand nooat wod do it grand—
Awd ax if aw wor thee."
An John did ax, an strange to say
He gat it thear an then;
An Bet wor ne'er i' sich a way—
Fairly besides hersen.
Soa th' haase wor turned into a shop,
An praad they wor,—an Bet
Sed to hersen—"It luks tip top,
Aw'st be a lady yet."
An th' naybors coom throo far an near,
To buy a thing or two,
What they'd paid tuppence for,—why, here
Bet made three awpence do.
When John coom home at neet, his wife
Wor soa uncommon thrang,
At th' furst time in his wedded life,
His drinkin time coom wrang.
He did his best to seem content,
Till shuttin up time coom;
"Why, lass, he said, "thar't fairly spent,
Tha's oppen'd wi a boom."
An ivvery day, to th' end o'th' wick
Browt customers enuff;
But th' stock wor lukkin varry sick,
For shoo'd sell'd all her stuff.
But then, shoo'd bowt a new silk gaon,
An John a silk top hat,
An th' nicest easy chair ith' taan,
An bits o' this an that.
An th' upshot wor, shoo'd spent all th' brass,
An shoo'd nowt left to sell;
An what John sed,—aw'll let that pass
For 'tisn't fit to tell.
Soa th' business brust, but Bet declares,
'Twor nobbut want o' thowt,
For shoo'd sooin ha made a fortun,
If th' stock had cost 'em nowt.
Th' Little Stranger.
Little bonny, bonny babby!
How tha stares, an' weel tha may,
For its but an haar or hardly
Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day.
A'a tha little knows, young moppet,
Ha awst have to tew for thee;
But may be when forced to drop it,
'At tha'll do a bit for me.
Are ta maddled mun amang it?
Does ta wonder what aw mean?
Aw should think tha does, but dang it,
Where's ta been to leearn to scream?
That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thi,
Dunnot peawt thi lip like that;
Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thi,
Feared awst hurt thi, little brat.
Come, aw'll tak thi to thi mother,
Shoo's more used to sich nor me,
Hands like mine worn't made to bother
Wi sich ginger-breead as thee.
Innocent an' helpless craytur,
All soa pure an' undefiled,
If ther's ought belangs to heaven,
Lives o'th' earth, it is a child.
An' its hard to think 'at someday,
If tha'rt spared to weather throo,
'At tha'll be a man, an' someway
Have to feight life's battles too.
Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies,
Once wor nowt noa moor to see,
An' th' warst wretch at hung o'th' gallows,
Once wor born as pure as thee.
An' what tha at last may come to,
God aboon us all can tell;
But aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky,
Even tho aw fail mysel.
Do aw ooin thi? its a pity,
Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat;
Goa an' snoozle to thi titty,
Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.
Th' Traitle Sop.
Once in a little country taan
A grocer kept a shop,
And sell'd amang his other things,
Prime traitle-drink and pop;
Teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice,
Soft soap an' paader blue,
Presarves an' pickles, cinnamon,
Allspice an' pepper too.
An' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff
To sell to sich as came,
As figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice,
Too numerous to name.
One summer's day a waggon stood
Just opposite his door;
An' th' childer all gaped raand as if
They'd ne'er seen one afoor.
An' in it wor a traitle cask,
It wor a wopper too,
To get it aght they all wor fast
Which iver way to do.
But wol they stood an' parley'd thear,
Th' horse gave a sudden chuck,
An' aght it flew, an' bursting threw
All th' traitle into th' muck.
Then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands,
To them it seem'd rare fun;
But th' grocer ommost lost his wits
When he saw th' traitle run.
He stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared
He wodn't pay a meg!
An' th' carter vow'd until he did
He wodn't stir a peg.
He said he'd done his business reight,—
He'd brought it up to th' door,
An' thear it wor, an' noa fair chap
Wod want him to do moor.
But wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore,
An' vented aght ther spleen,
Th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure,
All plaisterd up to th' een.
A neighbor chap saw th' state o' things,
An' pitied ther distress,
An' begg'd em not to be soa sour
Abaht soa sweet a mess;
"An' tha'd be sour," th' owd grocer sed,
"If th' job wor thine owd lad,
An' somdy wanted thee to pay
For what tha'd niver had."
"Th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver,
"My duty's done I hope?
I've brought him traitle, thear it is,
An' he mun sam it up."
Soa th' neighbor left em to thersen,
He'd nowt noa moor to say,
But went to guard what ther wor left,
An' send th' young brood away.
This didn't suit th' young lads a bit,—
They didn't mean to stop,
They felt detarmin'd that they'd get
Another traitle sop.
They tried all ways but th' chap stood firm,
They couldn't get a lick,
An' some o'th' boldest gate a taste
O'th neighbor's walkin stick.
At last one said, "I know a plan
If we can scheme to do it,
We'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt,
An' let him roll reight throo it;"
"Agreed! agreed!" they all replied,
"An here comes little Jack,
He's foorced to pass cloise up this side,
We'll do it in a crack."
Poor Jack wor rayther short, an' came
Just like a suckin duck;
He little dream'd at th' sweets o' life
Wod ivver be his luck.
But daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd
Heead first bang into th' mess,
An' aght he coom a woeful seet,
As yo may easy guess.
They marched him off i' famous glee,
All stickified an' clammy,
Then licked him clean an' sent him hooam
To get lick'd by his mammy.
Then th' cartdriver an th' grocer came,
Booath in a dreadful flutter,
To save some, but they came too lat,
It all wor lost ith gutter:
It towt a lesson to em booath
Befoor that job wor ended,
To try (at stead o' falling aght)
If owt went wrang to mend it.
For wol fowk rave abaht ther loss,
Some sharper's sure to pop,
An' aght o' ther misfortunes
They'll contrive to get a sop.
Once agean Welcome.
Once agean welcome! oh, what is ther grander,
When years have rolled by sin' yo left an old friend?
An what cheers yor heart, when yo far away wander,
As mich as the thowts ov a welcome at th' end?
Yo may goa an be lucky, an win lots o' riches;
Yo may gain fresh acquaintance as onward yo rooam;
But tho' wealth may be temptin, an honor bewitches,
Yet they're nowt when compared to a welcome back hooam.
Pray, who hasn't felt as they've sat sad an lonely,
They'd give all they possessed for the wings ov a dove,
To fly far away, just to catch a seet only
Ov th' friends o' ther childhood, the friends 'at they love.
Hope may fill the breast when some old spot we're leavin,
Bright prospects may lure us throo th' dear land away,
But it's joy o' returnin at sets one's breast heavin,
It's th' hopes ov a welcome back maks us feel gay.
Long miles yo may trudge ovver moor, heath, or mire,
Till yor legs seem to totter, an th' stummack feels faint;
But yor thowts still will dwell o' that breet cottage fire,
Till yo feel quite refreshed bi th' fancies yo paint.
An when yo draw nearer, an ovver th' old palins
Yo see smilin faces 'at welcome yo back,
Ther's an end to being weary! away wi complainin's!
Yo leeave all yor troubles behind on yor track.
Then if ther's sich joy in a welcome receivin,
Let us ivvery one try sich a pleasure to gain;
An bi soothin' fowk's cares, an ther sorrows relievin,
Let us bind em all to us, wi' friendship's strong chain.
Let us love an be loved! let's be kind an forgivin,
An then if fate forces us far from awr hooam,
We shall still throughout life have the joy o' receivin
A tear when we part, an a smile when we come.
Still true to Nell.
Th' sun wor settin,—red an gold,
Wi splendor paintin th' west,
An purplin tints throo th' valley roll'd,
As daan he sank to rest.
Yet dayleet lingered looath to leeav
A world soa sweet an fair,
Wol silent burds a pathway cleave,
Throo th' still an slumb'rin air.
Aw stroll'd along a country rooad,
Hedged in wi thorn an vine;
Which wild flower scents an shadows broad,
Converted to a shrine.
As twileet's deeper curtains fell
Aw sat mi daan an sighed;
Mi thowts went back to th' time when Nell,
Had rambled bi mi side.
Aw seemed to hear her voice agean,
Soft whisperin i' mi ear,
Recallin things 'at once had been,
When th' futur all wor clear.
When love,—pure, honest, youthful love
Had left us nowt to crave;
An fancies full ov bliss we wove;—
Alas! Nell's in her grave.
Oh, Nell! I' that fair hooam ov thine,
Whear all is breet an pure,—-
Say,—is ther room for love like mine?
Can earthborn love endure?
Do angels' hearts past vows renew,
To mortals here who dwell?
It must be soa;—if my heart's true,
Aw cannot daat thee, Nell.
It's weel we cannot see beyond
That curtain Deeath lets fall;
Lest cheerin hooaps, an longins fond,
Should be denied us all.
Better to live i' hooap nor fear,—
'Tis Mercy plan'd it soa;
For if my Nelly isn't thear,
Aw shouldn't care to goa.
Bide thi Time.
Bide thi time! it's sure to come,
Tho' it may seem tardy,—
Thine's a better fate nor some:
If tha's but a humble home,
Yet thart strong an hardy;
Then cheer up an ne'er repine,
Be content, an bide thi time.
Bide thi time! if fortun's blind,
Rail not at her givin;
If tha thinks shoo's ovver kind
To thi neighbor, nivver mind,
If tha gets a livin;
Woll thi life is in its prime,
Be content, an bide thi time.
Bide thi time! for ther's a endin
To a loin, haivver long:
Things at th' warst mun start o' mendin;
Ther's noa wind but what's befriendin
One or other, tho' its strong:
Remember, poverty's noa crime—
Be content, an bide thi time.
Bide thi time! tho none are near thee
To stretch out a helpin hand;
Let noa darken'd prospect fear thee,
Ther's a promise yet should cheer thee
As tha nears a breeter land:
Tho thi rooad is hard to climb,
Be content, an bide thi time.
Bide thi time! "I will not leave thee
Nor forsake thee," He hath said.
Let not worldly smiles deceive thee,
Trust in Him—He will relieve thee—
He that gives thy daily bread:
Fill'd with faith and love sublime,
Still contented, bide thi time.
A Cold Dooas.
One neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell,
But it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel.
Furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes,
Aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes.
Thinks aw—tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will!
But aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still;
Soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed,
Thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed.
When awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas,
Aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors;
Soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath,
An ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath.
When aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang,
For it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang;
It wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hurt,
But still, aw wor lockt aght o' door i' mi shirt.
Thinks aw its noa use to be feared ov a din,
Awst be foorced to rouse Betty to let me get in.
An to mend matters snow wor beginnin to fall,
An a linen shirt makes but a poor overall.
Aw knockt at first pratly, for fear ov a row,
But her snooarin aw heeard plain enuff daan below.
Mi flesh wor i' gooise-lumps, mi feet wor like ice,
To be frozzen to deeath, thinks aw, willn't be nice;
Soa as knockin wor useless aw started to bray,
Till at last one oth pannels began to give way.
All th' neighbors ther heeads aght oth windows did pop,
But aw couldn't wake Betty, shoo slept like a top.
At last a poleeceman coom raand wi his lamp,
An he spied mi an thowt mi some murderin scamp;
Aw tried to explain, but he wodn't give heed,
For he wanted a job like all th' rest ov his breed.
He tuk me to th' lock-up, an thear made a charge,
At aw wor a lunatic rooamin at large.
In a cell aw wor put, whear aw fan other three,
'Twor a small cell for four, but a big sell for me;
An shiv'rin an shudd'rin an pairt druffen sick,
That neet seem'd to me twice as long as a wick.
Next mornin they dragg'd me to th' cooart-haase to tell
What it meant, an to give an accaant o' misel;
An they fined me five shillin, but ha could aw pay,
When mi brass wor ith pockets oth clooas far away?
Then they sent Betty word, an shoo coom, for it seems
Shoo wor up i' gooid time, for shoo'd had ugly dreeams;
An shoo browt me mi clooas, an shoo set me all streight,
But her pity wor nobbut, "It just sarves thee reight."
Sin then yo've noa nooation what awve to endure,
For aw gate sich a cold 'at noa phisic can cure;
An if aw complain Betty says i' quicksticks,
"Tha sees what tha gets wi thi wrang-headed tricks."
Soa aw grin an aw bide it as weel as aw can,
But awve altered mi tactics, an nah it's mi plan
If mi mates ivver tempt me an get me to rooam,
Aw sup pop when awm aght an sup whisky at hooam.
An Betty declares it's been all for mi gooid,
For awd long wanted summat to cooil mi young blooid;
But this lesson it towt me awl freely confess,—
To mak sewer th' gate's made fast befoor aw undress.
A Jolly Beggar.
Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw havn't a meg,
But awm free as a burd, an aw shak a loise leg;
Aw've noa haase, an noa barns, soa aw nivver pay rent,
But still aw feel rich, for awm bless'd wi content,
Aw live, an awm jolly,
An if it is folly,
Let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent.
Mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up oth moor,
An at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor,
An a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop,
Wol aw listen to th' stormcock at pipes up oth top;
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Aw nivver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak,
Unless it's thease tatters at hing o' mi back;
An if they prig them, they'll get suck'd do yo see,
They'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me ith rooad
An get aght oth gate as if fear'd ov a tooad;
But aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell,
For th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Tho philosiphers tawk, an church parsons may praich,
An tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich;
Yet aw nivver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise,
For he's nowt to be fear'd on at's nowt he can loise.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.
Aw Wodn't for all aw Could See.
Why the dickens do some fowk keep thrustin,
As if th' world hadn't raam for us all?
Wi consarn an consait they're fair brustin,
One ud think th' heavens likely to fall.
They fidge an they fume an they flutter,
Like a burd catched wi lime on a tree,
And they'll fratch wi ther own breead an butter:—
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.
Bless mi life! th' world could get on withaat em!
It ud have to do if they wor deead;
They may be sincere but aw daat em,
If they're honest, they're wrang i' ther heead.
They've all some pet doctrine, an wonder
Why fowk wi ther plans disagree,
They expect yo should all knuckle under,
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.
My old woman may net be perfection,
But we're wed soa we know we've to stick;
An if shoo made another selection,
Aw mightn't be th' chap at shoo'd pick.
But we get on reight gradely together,
An her failins aw try net to see,
Some will bend under th' weight ov a feather,
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.
A chap at aits peaches and cherries,
Mun expect to be bothered wi stooans;
An he's nobbut a fooil if he worries
Coss yearins arnt made withaat booans.
To mak th' best o' things just as aw find em,
Seems th' reight sooart o' wisdom to me;
An when things isn't reight aw neer mind em,
For aw wodn't for all aw could see.
All araand me aw see ther's moor pleasure
Nor aw can enjoy wol aw live;
An contentment is this world's best treasure,
Then why should aw sit daan an grieve?
If they enjoy naggin an growlin,
It maks little difference to me,
But wi th' world full o' pleasure to roll in:—
Why, aw wodn't for all aw could see.
Come thi Ways!
Bonny lassie, come thi ways,
An let us goa together!
Tho' we've met wi stormy days,
Ther'll be some sunny weather.
An if joy should spring for me,
Tha shall freely share it;
An if trouble comes to thee,
Aw can help to bear it.
Tho' thi mammy says us nay,
An thi dad's unwillin';
Wod ta have me pine away
Wi this love at's killin'?
Come thi ways, an let me twine
Mi arms once moor abaght thee;
Weel tha knows mi heart is thine,
Aw couldn't live withaat thee.
Ivvery day an haar at slips,
Some pleasure we are missin',
For those bonny rooasy lips
Awm nivver stall'd o' kissin'.
If men wor wise to walk life's track
Withaat sith joys to glad 'em,
He must ha made a sad mistak
At gave a Eve to Adam.
What is it?
What is it maks a crusty wife
Forget to scold, an leeave off strife?
What is it smoothes th' rooad throo life?
It's sooap.
What is it maks a gaumless muff
Grow rich, an roll i' lots o' stuff,
Woll better men can't get enough?
It's sooap.
What is it, if it worn't theear,
Wod mak some fowks feel varry queer,
An put em i' ther proper sphere?
It's sooap.
What is it maks fowk wade throo th' snow,
To goa to th' church, becoss they know
'At th' squire's at hooam an sure to goa?
It's sooap.
What is it gains fowk invitations,
Throo them at live i' lofty stations?
What is it wins mooast situations?
It's sooap.
What is it men say they detest,
Yet allus like that chap the best
'At gives em twice as mich as th' rest?
It's sooap.
What is it, when the devil sends
His agents raand to work his ends,
What is it gains him lots o' friends?
It's sooap.
What is it we should mooast despise,
An by its help refuse to rise,
Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes?
It's sooap.
What is it, when life's wasting fast,
When all this world's desires are past,
Will prove noa use to us at last?
It's sooap.
Awst Nivver be Jaylus.
"Awst nivver be jaylus, net aw!"
Sed Nancy to th' love ov her heart,
"Aw couldn't, lad, if awd to try,
For aw know varry weel what tha art.
Aw could trust thee to th' world's farthest point,
Noa matter what wimmen wor thear,
They'd nooan put mi nooas aght o'th joint,
Tha'd come back to thi lass tha left here.
Though tha did walk Leweezy to th' church,
An fowk wink'd an dropt monny a hint,
Aw knew tha'd nooan leav me i'th lurch,
For a dowdy like her wi a squint.
An Ellen at lives at th' yard end,
May simper an innocent look,
But aw think shoo'll ha' farther to fend,
Befoor shoo's a fish to her hook.
Nay, jaylussy's aght o' my line,
Or else that young widdy next door,
Wod ha heeard some opinions o' mine,
At wodn't quite suit her awm sewer.
What tha can see in her caps me,
For awm sewer shoo's as faal as old Flue,
An aw think when shoo's tawkin to thee,
Shoo mud find surnmat better to do.
'Shoo's a varry nice lass,' does ta say?
'An luks looansum tha thinks?' oh! that's it!
Tha'd better set off reight away,
An try to console her a bit.
Shoo's a two-faced deceitful young freet!
Aw wish shoo wor teed raand thi neck!
But goa to her an tell her to-neet,
At Nancy has given thi th' seck.
Awm nooan jaylus! aw ammot that fond!
Aw think far too mich o' mysen
To care for sich a poucement as yond,
At hankers for other fowk's men!
Aw tell thi aw'll net hold mi tongue!
Awm nooan jaylus tha madlin! it's thee!*
An aw allus shall trust thee as long
As tha nooatices nubdy but me."
Lamentin' an Repentin'.
Awst be better when spring comes, aw think,
But aw feel varry sickly an waik,
Awve noa relish for mait nor for drink,
An awm ommost too weary to laik.
What's to come on us all aw can't tell,
For we havn't a shillin put by;
Ther's nowt left to pop nor to sell,
An aw cannot get trust if aw try.
My wife has to turn aght to wark,
An th' little uns all do a share;
An they're tewin throo dayleet to dark,
To keep me sittin here i' mi chair.
It doesn't luk long sin that day
When Bessy wor stood bi mi side;
An shoo promised to love an obey,
An me to protect an provide.
Shoo wor th' bonniest lass i' all th' taan,
An fowk sed as they saw us that day,
When we coom aght o' th' church, arm i' arm,
Shoo wor throwin' hersen reight away.
But shoo smiled i' mi face as we went,
An her arm clung moor tightly to mine;
"Aw feel happy," shoo sed, "an content
To know at tha'rt mine an awm thine."
Aw wor praad ov her bonny breet een,—
Aw wor praad ov her little white hand,—
An aw thowt shoo wor fit for a queen,
For ther wornt a grander ith' land.
We gat on varry weel for a bit,
An aw stuck to mi wark like a man,
An enjoying mi hooam, thear awd sit,
As a chap at works hard nobbut can.
We hadn't been wed quite a year,
When they showed me a grand little lad,
An th' old wimmen sed, "Sithee! luk here!
He's th' image exact ov his dad."
But mi mates nivver let me alooan,
Till aw joined i' ther frolics and spree,
An tho' Bessy went short, or had nooan,
Shoo wor kinder nor ivver to me.
Sometimes when shoo's ventur'd to say,
"Come hooam an stop in lad, to-neet."
Awve felt shamed an awve hurried away,
For her een have been glist'nin wi weet.
An awve sed to misen 'at awd mend,
For it's wrang to be gooin on soa;
But at neet back to th' aleus awd wend,
Wi th' furst swillgut at ax'd me to goa.
Two childer wor added to th' stock,
But aw drank, an mi wark went to th' bad;
An awve known em be rooarin for jock,
Wol awve druffen what they should ha had.
Aw seldom went hooam but to sleep,
Tho Bessy ne'er offered to chide;
But grief 'at is silent is deep,
An sorrow's net easy to hide.
If th' childer wod nobbut complain,
Or Bessy get peevish an tart,
Aw could put up wi th' anguish or pain,
But ther kindness is braikin mi heart.
Little Emma, poor child, ov a neet
Does th' neighbours odd jobs nah and then,
An shoo runs hersen off ov her feet,
For a hawpny, they think for hersen.
An shoo saved em until shoo gat three,
But this mornin away shoo went aght,
An spent em o' bacca for me,
'Coss shoo thowt aw luk'd looansum withaat.
It's a lesson awst nivver forget,
An awve bid a gooid-bye to strong drink;
An theyst hev ther reward yo can bet;—
Awst be better when spring comes aw think.
An if spendin what's left o' mi life
For ther sakes can mak up for lost time,
Ther shan't be a happier wife,
Nor three better loved childer nor mine.
Aw can't help mi een runnin o'er,
For mi heart does mi conduct condemn;
But awl promise to do soa noa moor,
If God spares me to Bessy and them.
Bite Bigger.
As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark,
(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,)
Aw happen'd to hear a remark,
At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan.—
It wur raanin, an snawin, an cowd,
An th' flagstoans wur covered wi muck,
An th' east wind booath whistled an howl'd,
It saanded like nowt but ill luck;
When two little lads, donn'd i' rags,
Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet,
Coom trapesin away ower th' flags,
Booath on em sodden'd wi th' weet.—
Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
Th' young en be hauf on't,—noa moor;
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen,
God help fowk this weather at's poor!
Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand,
An aw luk'd just to see what 't could be;
'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand,
An they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee:
An he sed, "Come on, Billy, may be
We shall find summat else by an by,
An if net, tha mun share thease wi me
When we get to some spot where its dry."
Leet-hearted they trotted away,
An aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad;
But aw thowt awd ne'er seen sich a day—
It worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad.
Sooin th' big en agean slipt away,
An sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck,
An he cried aght, "Luk here, Bill! to-day
Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck?
Here's a apple! an th' mooast on it's saand:
What's rotten aw'll throw into th' street—
Worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand?
Nah booath on us con have a treat."
Soa he wiped it, an rubb'd it, an then
Sed, "Billy, thee bite off a bit;
If tha hasn't been lucky thisen
Tha shall share wi me sich as aw get."
Soa th' little en bate off a touch,
T'other's face beemed wi pleasur all throo,
An' he sed, "Nay, tha hasn't taen much,
Bite agean, an bite bigger; nah do!"
Aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,—
Thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me!
Tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor:
Th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee!
Tuppince wur all th' brass aw had,
An awd ment it for ale when coom nooin,
But aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad,
He desarves it for what he's been dooin.
Soa aw sed, "Lad, here's tuppince for thee,
For thi sen,"—an they stared like two geese;
But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e,
"Nay, it'll just be a penny a piece."
"God bless thi! do just as tha will,
An may better days speedily come;
Tho clam'd, an hauf donn'd, mi lad, still
Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nur some."
Second Thowts.
Aw've been walkin up th' loin all ith weet,
Aw felt sure tha'd be comin that way;
For tha promised tha'd meet me to-neet,
An answer me "Aye" or else "Nay."
Tho aw hevn't mich fear tha'll refuse,
Yet awd rayther mi fate tha'd decide,
For this trailin abaat is no use,
Unless tha'll at last be mi bride.
Aw dooant like keepin thus i' suspense,
An aw think tha'rt too full o' consait;
If aw get thee tha'll bring me expense,
To provide thee wi clooas an wi mait.
If tha fancies all th' gain's o' my side
Tha'rt makkin a sorry mistak,
For when a chap tackles a bride,
He's an extra looad on his back.
An in fact, when aw study things o'er,
Awm nooan sorry tha hasn't shown up,
For awm nooan badly off nah awm sure,
For awve plenty to ait an to sup.
Aw've noa wife to find fault if awm lat,
Aw've noa childer to feed nor to clam,
An when aw put this thing to that,
Aw think aw shall stop as aw am.
A Neet when aw've Nowt to do.
Why lad, awm sewer tha'rt ommost done,
This ovvertime is killin;
'Twor allus soa sin th' world begun,
They put o' them at's willin.
Tha's ne'er a neet to call thi own,—
Tha starts furst thing o' Mundy,
An works thi fingers fair to th' booan,
Booath day an neet wol Sundy.
Aw know tha addles extra pay,—
We couldn't weel do baght it,
But if tha'rt browt hooam sick some day,
We'st ha to do withaat it.
Aw seldom get to see thi face,
Exceptin when tha'rt aitin;
Neet after neet aw caar ith' place
Wol awm fair sick o' waitin.
An when tha comes, tha'rt off to bed,
Befoor aw've chonce o' spaikin,
An th' childer luk, aw've ofttimes sed,
Like orphans when they're laikin.
Come hooam at six o'clock to-morn,
An let wark goa to hummer,
Thi face is growin white an worn:—
Tha'll nivver last all summer.
Besides ther's lots o' little jobs,
At tha can tak a hand in,—
That kist o' drawers has lost two nobs,
An th' table leg wants mendin.
Ther's th' fixin up oth' winderblind,
An th' chaymer wants whiteweshin,
Th' wall's filled wi marks o' ivvery kind,—
(Yond lads desarve a threshin.)
Aw can't shake th' carpet bi misen,
Nor lig it square an straightly;—
Th' childer mud help me nah an then,
But they ne'er do nowt reightly.
That bed o' awrs wants shakin up,
All th' flocks has stuck together,
Tha knows they all want braikin up,
Or they'll get tough as leather.
An th' coilhoil wants a coit o' lime,
Then it'll smell mich sweeter,
An th' cellar should be done this time,
It maks it soa mich leeter.
Ther's lots o' little things beside;—
All th' childer's clogs want spetchin,
Jack's hurts his toa, tha'll mak em wide,
Wi varry little stretchin.
Besides, tha raillee wants a rest,
For a neet, or maybe two,
An tha can fix theas trifles best,
Some neet when tha's nowt to do.
Awm net like some at connot feel
For others, aw assure thi:
Tha's tewd until tha'rt owt but weel;
An nowt but rest can cure thi.
Soa come hooam sooin an spend a neet,
Wi me an Jack an Freddy,
They'll think it's ivver sich a treat;
An aw'll have th' whitewesh ready.
Ther's much Expected.
Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,
An we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;
Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"
It seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.
But if we'd all anxiously tak
To makkin things smooth as we're able,
Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,
An' monny a better spread table.
It's a sad state o' things when a man
Cannot put ony faith in his brother,
An fancies he'll chait if he can,
An rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.
An it's sad when yo see some at stand
High in social position an power,
To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd,
An built, aght oth' wrecks o' those lower.
It's sad to see luxury rife,
An fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;
While others are wearin out life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.
Some in carriages rollin away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;
But ther chariots may bear em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.
Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An from them varry mich is expected.
An tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come—an surely it will—
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.
An when called on, they, tremblin wi fear,
Say "The hungry an nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall o' ther ear—
"Depart from me; I never knew you."
Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.
Coortin Days.
Coortin days,—Coortin days,—loved one an lover!
What wod aw give if those days could come ovver?
Weddin is joyous,—its pleasur unstinted;
But coortin is th' sweetest thing ivver invented.
Walkin an talkin,
An nursin Love's spark,
Charmin an warmin
Tho th' neet may be dark.
Oh! but it's nice when yor way's long and dreary,
To walk wi yor arm raand th' waist ov yor dearie;
Tellin sweet falsehoods, the haars to beguile em,
(If yo tell'd em ith' dayleet they'd put yo ith' sylum.)
But ivverything's fair
I' love an i' war,
But be sewer to act square;—
An do if yo dar!
Squeezin an kissin an kissin an squeezin,—
Laughin an coughin an ticklin an sneezin,—
But remember,—if maybe, sich knowledge yo lack,
Allus smile in her face, but, sneeze at her back.
Yo may think, if a fooil,
Sich a thing nivver mattered,
But a lass, as a rule,
Doesn't want to be spattered.
When th' coortin neet comes, tho' yor appetite's ragin,
Dooant fill up wi oonions, wi mar'gum an sage in,
Remember, the darlin, where centred yor bliss is,
Likes to fancy, yor livin on love an her kisses.
An yor linen, if plain,
Have all spotless an fresh:
Then shoo connot complain,
When shoo has it to wesh.
When Love's flame's been lit, an burst into a glow,
Th' best thing yo can do,—(that's as far as aw know;)
Is to goa to a parson an pay him his price,
An to join yo together he'll put in a splice,
Then together yo'll face
This world's battle an bother,
An if that isn't th' case,
Yo can feight for each other.
Sweet Mistress Moore.
Mistress Moore is Johnny's wife,
An Johnny is a druffen sot;
He spends th' best portion of his life
Ith' beershop wi a pipe an pot.
At schooil together John an me
Set side by side like trusty chums,
An nivver did we disagree
Till furst we met sweet Lizzy Lumbs.
At John shoo smiled,
An aw wor riled;
Shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me;
Her bonny e'en
Aw've seldom seen
Sin that sad day shoo slighted me.
Aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want,
For Johnny ofttimes gets oth' spree;
He spends his wages in a rant,
An leeaves his wife to pine or dee.
An monny a time awve ligged i' bed,
An cursed my fate for bein poor,
An monny a bitter tear awve shed,
When thinkin ov sweet Mistress Moore.
For shoo's mi life
Is Johnny's wife,
An tho to love her isn't reet,
What con aw do,
When all th' neet throo
Awm dreamin ov her e'en soa breet.
Aw'll goa away an leeave this spot,
For fear at we should ivver meet,
For if we did, as sure as shot
Awst throw me daan anent her feet.
Aw know shoo'd think aw wor a fooil,
To love a woman when shoo's wed,
But sin aw saw her furst at schooil,
It's been a wretched life aw've led.
But th' time has come
To leeave mi hooam,
An th' sea between us sooin shall roar,
Yet still mi heart
Will nivver part
Wi' th' image ov sweet Mistress Moore.
Waivin Mewsic.
Ther's mewsic ith' shuttle, ith' loom, an ith frame,
Ther's melody mingled ith' noise;
For th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame,
If they'd harken to th' saand of its voice.
An when flaggin a bit, how refreshin to feel
As you pause an look raand on the throng,
At the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel,
Sing this plain unmistakable song:—
Nick a ting, nock a ting;
Wages keep pocketing;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind;
Keep a contented mind;
Troubles are oft ov a body's own makin.
To see workin fowk wi a smile o' ther face
As they labour thear day after day;
An hear th' women's voices float sweetly throo th' place,
As they join i' some favorite lay;
It saands amang th' din, as the violet seems
At peeps aght th' green dockens among,
Diffusing a charm ovver th' rest by its means,
Thus it blends i' that steady old song;
Nick a ting, nock a ting,
Wages keep pocketing;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind,
Keep a contented mind,
Troubles are oft ov a body's own makin.
An then see what lessons are laid out anent us,
As pick after pick follows time after time,
An warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us
From strivin by little endeavours to climb;
Th' world's made o' trifles, its dust forms a mountain,
Then nivver despair as yor trudgin along,
If troubles will come an yor spirits dishearten,
Yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady owd song;
Nick a ting, nock a ting;
Wages keep pocketin;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind;
Keep a contented mind;
Troubles are oft ov a body's own makin.
Life's warp comes throo Heaven, th' weft's faand bi us sen,
To finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath;
Th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty, how then?
Noa waiver ith' world can produce a gooid clooath.
Then let us endeavour by workin an strivin,
To finish awr piece so's noa fault can be fun,
An then i' return for awr pains an contrivin,
Th' takker in 'll reward us and whisper "well done."
Clink a clank, clink a clank,
Workin withaat a thank,
May be awr fortun, if soa nivver mind it,
Strivin to do awr best,
We shall be reight at last,
If we lack comfort now, then shall we find it.
Jimmy's Choice.
One limpin Jimmy wed a lass;
An this wor th' way it coom to pass—
He'd saved a little bit o' brass,
An soa he thowt he'd ventur
To tak unto hissen a wife,
To ease his mind ov all its strife,
An be his comfort all throo life—
An, pray, what should prevent her?
"Awve brass enuff," he sed, "for two,
An noa wark at awm foorced to do,
But all th' day long can bill an coo,
Just like a little pigeon.
Aw nivver have a druffen rant;
Aw nivver praich teetotal cant;
Aw nivver booast at awm a saint,
I' matters o' religion.
"Then with a gradely chap like me,
A lass can live mooast happily;
An awl let all awr neighbors see
We'll live withaat a wrangle;
For if two fowk just have a mind
To be to one another kind,
They each may be as easy twined
As th' hannel ov a mangle.
"For love's moor paar nor oaths an blows,
An kind words, ivverybody knows,
Saves monny a hundred thaasand rows;
An soa we'll start wi kindness;
For if a chap thinks he can win
Love or respect wi oaths an din,
He'll surely find he's been let in,
An sarved reight for his blindness."
Soa Jimmy went to tell his tale
To a young lass called Sally Swale,
An just for fear his heart should fail,
He gate a drop o' whiskey.
Net mich, but just enuff, yo see,
To put a spark into his e'e,
An mak his tongue a trifle free,
An mak him strong an frisky.
Young Sally, shoo wor varry shy,
An when he'd done shoo breathed a sigh,
An then began to sob an cry
As if her heart wor brokken.
"Nay, Sally lass,—pray what's amiss?"
He sed, an gave a lovin kiss,
"If awd expected owt like this,
Awm sewer awd ne'er ha spokken."
At last shoo dried her bonny een,
An felt as praad as if a queen;
An nivver king has ivver been
One hawf as praad as Jimmy.
An soa they made all matters sweet,
An one day quietly stroll'd up th' street,
Till th' owd church door coom into seet—
Says Jim, "Come, lass, goa wi me."
Then wed they wor an off they went
To start ther life ov sweet content;
An Sally ax'd him whear he meant
Ther honey-mooin to spend at?
Says Jim, "We're best at hooam, aw think,
We've lots o' stuff to ait an drink."
But Sally gave a knowin wink,
An sed, "Nay, awl net stand that.
"Tha needn't think aw meean to be
Shut up like in a nunnery;
Awm fond o' life, an love a spree,
As weel as onny other."
"Tha cannot goa," sed Jim, "that's flat."
"But goa aw shall, awl tell thee that!
What wod ta have a woman at?
Shame on thee for sich bother!"
Jim scrat his heead, "Nah lass," sed he,
"One on us mun a maister be,
Or else we'st allus disagree,
An nivver live contented."
Sed Sal, "Awd ne'er a maister yet,
An if tha thowt a slave to get,
Tha'll find thisen mista'en, awl bet;
Awm sewer aw nivver meant it."
Jim tried his best to change her mind,
But mud as weel ha saved his wind;
An soa to prove he worn't unkind,
He gave in just to pleeas her.
He's allus follow'd th' plan sin then,
To help her just to pleeas hersen;
An nah, he says, "They're fooilish men
At wed a wife to teeas her."
Old Moorcock.
Awm havin a smook bi misel,
Net a soul here to spaik a word to,
Awve noa gossip to hear nor to tell,
An ther's nowt aw feel anxious to do.
Awve noa noashun o' writin a line,
Tho' awve just dipt mi pen into th' ink,
Towards warkin aw dooant mich incline,
An awm ommost too lazy to think.
Awve noa riches to mak me feel vain,
An yet awve as mich as aw need;
Awve noa sickness to cause me a pain,
An noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed.
Awr Dolly's crept off to her bed,
An aw hear shoo's beginnin to snoor;
(That upset me when furst we wor wed,
But nah it disturbs me noa moor.)
Like me, shoo taks things as they come,
Makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot,
Shoo's content wi her own humble hooam,
For her world's i' this snug little cot.
We know at we're booath growin old,
But Time's traces we hardly can see;
An tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd,
Shoo's still th' same young Dolly to me.
Her face may be wrinkled an grey,
An her een may be losin ther shine,
But her heart's just as leetsome to-day
As it wor when aw furst made her mine.
Awve mi hobbies to keep me i' toit,
Awve noa whistle nor bell to obey,
Awve mi wark when aw like to goa to it,
An mi time's all mi own, neet an day.
An tho' some pass me by wi a sneer,
An some pity mi lowly estate,
Aw think awve a deeal less to fear
Nor them at's soa wealthy an great.
When th' sky stretches aght blue an breet,
An th' heather's i' blossom all round,
Makkin th' mornin's cooil breezes smell sweet,
As they rustle along ovver th' graand.
When aw listen to th' lark as he sings
Far aboon, ommost lost to mi view,
Aw lang for a pair ov his wings,
To fly wi him, an sing like him, too.
