MORAL.

Yo fowk 'at's tempted to goa buy

Be careful what yo do;

Dooant be persuaded 'coss "it's _cheap_,"

For if yo do yo'll rue;

Dooant think its lowerin to yor sen

To ax a friend's advice,

Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may be

Bowt dear at onny price.

Aght o' Wark.

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,

An aw can't get a day's wark to do!

Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick

An aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.

Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam,

An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,

For they think it's high time aw should come,

An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case

When th' cubbord is empty an bare;

When want's stamped o' ivvery face,

An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street,

Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;

An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet,

For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel,

Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,

Had nivver known th' want of a meal,

Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare,

Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;

But ther maisters forget they should care

For a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet,

An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar,

An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet,

But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,

Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;

An unless we can get it o'th' strap,

We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs

To them three little lambs an ther dam;--

Aw wish they wor horses or dogs,

For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.

But they say ther is One 'at can see,

An has promised to guide us safe throo;

Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee,

He'll find a chap summat to do.

That's a Fact.

"A'a Mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee!

Aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure;--

Aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see,

Aw wor nivver i' this way afoor.

Aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo;

Aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm,

An' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too--

Tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form.

Aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght--

But promise tha'll keep it reight squat;

For aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght,

But aw can't keep it in--tha knows that.

We'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet,

An Jimmy wor thear,--tha's seen Jim?

An he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit,

To ax me for th' number o'th' hymn;

Aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick,

For he heeard it geen aght th' same as me;

An he just did th' same thing tother wick,--

It made fowk tak nooatice, dos't see.

An when aw wor gooin towards hooam,

Aw heeard som'dy comin behund:

'Twor pitch dark, an aw thowt if they coom,

Aw should varry near sink into th' graund.

Aw knew it wor Jim bi his traid,

An aw tried to get aght ov his gate;

But a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid,

Aw wor nivver i' sich en a state.

Then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl,

An aw said, "nah, leeav loise or aw'll screeam!

Can't ta let daycent lasses alooan,

Consarn thi up! what does ta mean?"

But he stuck to mi arm like a leach,

An he whispered a word i' mi ear;

It tuk booath mi breeath an mi speech,

For aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear.

Then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel,

An he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth:

Aw says, "Jimmy, forshame o' thisel!"

As sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath.

But he wod'nt be quiet, for he sed

'At he'd loved me soa true an soa long--

Aw'd ha geen a ear off o' my ye'd

To get loise--but tha knows he's soa strong.--

Then he tell'd me he wanted a wife,

An he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;--

Aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life,

Aw wor fesen'd whativver to say;

'Coss tha knows aw've a likin for Jim;

But yo can't allus say what yo meean;

For aw tremb'ld i' ivvery limb,

Wol he kussed me agean an agean.

But at last aw began to give way,

For, raylee, he made sich a fuss,

An aw kussed him an all--for they say,

Ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss.

Then he left me at th' end o' awr street,

An aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo;

But if aw should see him to neet,

What wod ta advise me to do?

But dooant spaik a word--tha's noa need,

For aw've made up mi mind ha to act,

For he's th' grandest lad ivver aw seed,

An aw like him th' best too--that's a fact!"

Babby Burds.

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn,

Across a meadow newly shorn;

Th' sun wor shinin breet and clear,

An fragrant scents rose up i'th' air,

An all wor still.

When, as my steps wor idly rovin,

Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin!

It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin,

As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin

O'th' edge o'th' hill.

It wor a little skylark's nest,

An two young babby burds, undrest,

Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide,

Callin for mammy to provide

Ther mornin's meal;

An high aboon ther little hooam,

Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom;

Ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear,

Like breathins throo a purer sphere,

He sang soa weel.

Ther mammy, a few yards away,

Wor hoppin on a bit o' hay;

Too feeard to coom, too bold to flee;

An watchin me wi' troubled e'e,

Shoo seem'd to say:

"Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man!

Ther daddy does the best he can

To cheer yo with his sweetest song;

An thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long,

Soa let 'em stay."

"Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm--

Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm!

For aw've a little nest misel,

An two young babs, aw'm praad to tell,

'At's precious too;

An they've a mammy watching thear,

'At howds them little ens as dear,

An dearer still, if that can be,

Nor what thease youngens are to thee,

Soa come,--nah do!

"A'a well!--tha'rt shy, tha hops away,--

Tha doesn't trust a word aw say;

Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder,

An aw confess aw dunnot wonder--

But tha's noa need;

Aw'll leave yo to yorsels,--gooid bye!

For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh;

He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong;

He loves yo better nor his song--

He does indeed."

Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear

Caught up the saand o' warblin clear;

Thinks aw, they're happy once agean;

Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meean

To rob that nest;

For they're contented wi' ther lot,

Nor envied me mi little cot;

An in this world, as we goa throo,

It is'nt mich gooid we can do,

An do awr best.

Then let us do as little wrong

To onny as we pass along,

An never seek a joy to gain

'At's purchased wi' another's pain,

It isn't reet.

Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart,

To mend awr Johnny's little cart:

(He allus finds me wark enuff

To piecen up his brocken stuff,

For ivvery neet.)

An Sally--a'a! if yo could see her!

When aw sit daan to get mi teah,

Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee,

An maks me sing it "Hush a bee,"

I'th' rocking chear;

Then begs some sugar for it too;

What it can't ait shoo tries to do;

An turnin up her cunnin e'e,

Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see,

It gets its share."

Sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear!

Then starts a little tremblin tear,

'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew

Swimmin within a wild flaar blue,

Falls fro ther e'e;

But as the sun in April shaars

Revives the little droopin flaars,

A kind word brings ther sweet smile back:

Aw raylee think mi brain ud crack

If they'd ta dee.

Then if aw love my bairns soa weel,

May net a skylark's bosom feel

As mich consarn for th' little things

'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings

Soa weel affoards?

If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind

How mich is gained by bein kind;

Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell,

An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell

Even o'th' burds.

Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Have yo seen mi bonny Mary,

Shoo lives at Skircoit Green;

An old fowk say a fairer lass

Nor her wor nivver seen.

An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar,

'At's bloomin thear to-day;

An one an all are scared to deeath,

Lest shoo should flee away.

Shoo's health an strength an beauty too,

Shoo's grace an style as weel:

An what's moor precious far nor all,

Her heart is true as steel.

Shoo's full ov tenderness an love,

For onny in distress;

Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove,

Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.

Her fayther's growin old an gray,

Her mother's wellny done;

But in ther child they find a stay,

As life's sands quickly run.

Her smilin face like sunshine comes,

To chase away ther cares,

An peeace an comfort allus dwells,

In that dear hooam ov theirs.

Each Sundy morn shoo's off to schooil,

To taich her Bible class;

An meets a smilin welcome,

From ivvery lad an lass;

An when they sing some old psalm tune,

Her voice rings sweet an clear,

It saands as if an angel's tongue,

Had joined in worship thear.

Aw sometimes see her safely hooam,

An oft aw've tried to tell,

That precious saycret ov a hooap

'At in mi heart does dwell.

But when aw've seen the childlike trust,

'At glances throo her e'e,

To spaik ov love aw nivver durst;--

Shoo's far too gooid for me.

But to grow worthy ov her love,

Is what aw meean to try;

An time may my affection prove,--

An win her bye-an-bye.

Then aw shall be the happiest chap

'At Yorksher's ivver seen,

An some fine day aw'll bear away,

The Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Th' Little Black Hand.

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen,

An it may be poetical fire:

An suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then?

Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away--

Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read;

An tho' aw turn neet into day,

If aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life;

But then ther's abundance o' care,

An them 'at's contented wi' strife

May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,--

Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk;

An if butter be aght o' mi raik,

Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass

'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!

When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass,

Aw con thoil 'em whativver they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street,

An aw see fowk hawf-clam'd, an i' rags,

Wi' noa bed to lig daan on at neet

But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;

Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut knew

What ther brothers i' poverty feel,

They'd a trifle moor charity show,

An help 'em sometimes to a meal.

But we're all far too fond of ussen,

To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet;

An we leeav to ther fate sich as them

'At's noa bed nor noa supper at neet.

But ther's monny a honest heart throbs,

Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains,

'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs,

'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's workin away,

An sweepin that crossin i'th' street:

He's been thear ivver sin it coom day,

An yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by,

An ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom!

What care they tho' he smothered a sigh,

Or wiped off a tear as they coom?

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart!

He's gien th' poor child summat at last:

Ha his e'en seem to twinkle an start,

As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

An thear in his little black hand

He sees a gold sovereign shine!

He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand,

An he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee,

An tell him to cut aght o'th seet;

But he clutches it fast,--an nah see

Ha he's threedin his way along th' street.

Till he comes to that varry same man,

An he touches him gently o'th' back,

An he tells him as weel as he can,

'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An th' chap luks at that poor honest lad,

With his little nak'd feet, as he stands,

An his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad

Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An he begs him to tell him his name:

But th' child glances timidly raand--

Poor craytur! he connot forshame

To lift up his e'en off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik,

An he tells him they call him poor Joa;

'At his mother is sickly an' waik;

An his father went deead long ago;

An he's th' only one able to work

Aght o' four; an he does what he can,

Throo early at morn till it's dark:

An he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An he tells him his mother's last word,

As he starts for his labor for th' day,

Is to put all his trust in the Lord,

An He'll net send him empty away.--

See that man! nah he's wipin his e'en,

An he gives him that bright piece o' gowd;

An th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen

What'll keep his poor mother throo th' cowd.

An monny a time too, after then,

Did that gentleman tak up his stand

At that crossing an watch for hissen

The work ov that little black hand.

An when years had gooan by, he expressed

'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had,

An all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best

'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate,

An booast o' ther riches and land,

Some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rate

To that lad with his little black hand.

My Native Twang.

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap,

An ow't to goa to th' schooil

To leearn to talk like other fowk,

An net be sich a fooil;

But aw've a noashun, do yo see,

Although it may be wrang,

The sweetest music is to me,

Mi own, mi native twang.

An when away throo all mi friends,

I' other taans aw rooam,

Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends

For what aw've left at hooam;

But as aw hurry throo ther streets

Noa matter tho aw'm thrang,

Ha welcome if mi ear but greets

Mi own, mi native twang.

Why some despise it, aw can't tell,

It's plain to understand;

An sure aw am it saands as weel,

Tho' happen net soa grand.

Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged,

They call that vulgar slang;

But if aw tell 'em they're engaged,

That's net mi native twang.

Mi father, tho' he may be poor,

Aw'm net ashamed o' him;

Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf,

An tho' her e'en are dim;

Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk

Its crucken'd streets amang;

For thear it is aw hear fowk tawk

Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin fowk

Say boldly what they meean;

For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck,

May be ther hearts are cleean.

An them 'at country fowk despise,

Aw say, "Why, let 'em hang;"

They'll nivver rob mi sympathies

Throo thee, mi native twang.

Aw like to see grand ladies,

When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine;

Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en

Throo th' carriage winders shine;

Mi mother wor a woman,

An tho' it may be wrang,

Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them

'At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivvery one;

Gooid luck to them 'ats brass;

Gooid luck an better times to come

To them 'ats poor--alas!

An may health, wealth, an sweet content

For ivver dwell amang

True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,

'At tawk mi native twang.

Sing On.

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on;

Aw connot sing;

A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con

Fresh troubles spring.

Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away,

Aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day.

Mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine,

But nah it's sad;

Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine,

Sich faith aw had;--

But he who promised aw should be his wife

Has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life.

Sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song;

Yet, when aw hear

Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong,

Aw feel a tear

Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief,

A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.

This little darlin, cuddled to mi breast,

It little knows,

When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest,

'At all mi woes

Are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik

But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.

Sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see

That faithless swain,

Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery,

Strike up thy strain,

An if his heart yet answers to thy trill

Fly back to me, an we will love him still.

But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel

All hope is o'er,

An he that aw believed an loved soa weel

Be loved noa more;

For that hard heart, bird music cannot move,

Is far too cold a dwellin-place for love.

Shoo's thi Sister.

(Written on seeing a wealthy Townsman rudely push

a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,

Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;

On her feet ther's monny a blister:

See ha painfully shoo drags

Her tired limbs to some quiet corner:

Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,

Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;

Used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin--

Shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor;

Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,

Still shoo's human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,

A kid glove o' awther hand,

Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin--

Shoo's thi sister, understand:

Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,

Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Luk ha sharp her elbow's growin,

An ha pale her little face;

An her hair neglected, showin

Her's has been a sorry case;

O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,

When tha shov'd her into th' street.

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater

Nor thisen wi' all thi brass;

Him, awr blessed Mediator,--

Wod He scorn that little lass?

Noa, He called 'em, an He blessed 'em,

An His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways! an if tha bears net

Some regret for what tha's done,

If tha con pass on, an cares net

For that sufferin little one;

Then ha'ivver poor shoo be,

Yet shoo's rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us,

To awr duties here below!

For we're forced to leeav behind us

All awr pomp, an all awr show;

Why then should we slight another?

Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.

Another Babby.

Another!--well, my bonny lad,

Aw wodn't send thee back;

Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam,

Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch

To see thi pratty face;

Ther's net another child i'th' bunch

Moor welcome to a place.

Aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee,

I' some nook o' mi cage;

But if another comes, raylee!

Aw'st want a bigger wage.

But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want--

We'll try to pool thee throo,

For Him who has mi laddie sent,

He'll send his baggin too.

He hears the little sparrows chirp,

An answers th' raven's call;

He'll nivver see one want for owt,

'At's worth aboon 'em all.

But if one on us mun goa short,

(Altho' it's hard to pine,)

Thy little belly shall be fill'd

Whativver comes o' mine.

A chap con nobbut do his best,

An that aw'll do for thee,

Leavin to providence all th' rest,

An we'st get help'd, tha'll see.

An if thi lot's as bright an fair

As aw could wish it, lad,

Tha'll come in for a better share

Nor ivver blessed thi dad.

Aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt,

If, when deeath comes, aw find

Aw leeav some virtuous lasses

An some honest lads behind.

An tho' noa coat ov arms may grace

For me, a sculptor'd stooan,

Aw hooap to leeav a noble race,

Wi' arms o' flesh an booan.

Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black,

Wi' health, we'll persevere,

An try to find a brighter track--

We'll conquer, nivver fear!

An may God shield thee wi' his wing,

Along life's stormy way,

An keep thi heart as free throo sin,

As what it is to-day.

To a Roadside Flower.

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined

To tak thee wi' me:

But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind,

Tha'd ne'er forgie me;

For i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee,

An life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee.

Here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish,

Whear scoors may pass thee;

Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish

May stop an bless thee:

Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty!

Sent here to bless: Smile on--tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn't rob another of a joy

Sich as tha's gien me;

For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy

Until aw'd seen thee.

An may each passin, careworn, lowly brother,

Feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another.

An Old Man's Christmas Morning.

Its a long time sin thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,--

Soa pull up thi cheer, an sit daan,

for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee:

Thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,--yet mi heart feels glad,

To see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek,

an a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e.

Thi limbs seem to totter an shake, like a crazy owd fence,

'At th' wind maks to tremel an creak;

but tha still fills thi place;

An it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense,

'At i' spite o' thi years an thi cares,

tha still wears a smile o' thi face.

Come fill up thi pipe--for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,--

An tha'll find a drop o' hooam-brew'd

i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say;

An nah, wol tha'rt tooastin thi shins,

just scale th' foir, an aw'll side thi owd stick,

Then aw'll tell thi some things

'at's happen'd sin tha went away.

An first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd,

For trials an troubles have come,

an mi heart has felt well nigh to braik;

An mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride,

an mi fortuns has shared,

Shoo bent under her griefs, an shoo's flown far,

far away aght o' ther raik.

My life's like an owd gate 'at's nobbut one hinge for support,

An sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely--

at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust;

But it hasn't to be, for it seems Life maks me his spooart,

An Deeath cannot even spare time,

to turn sich an owd man into dust.

Last neet as aw sat an watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire,

As it crackled, an sparkled, an flared up wi sich gusto an spirit,

An when it wor touched it shone breeter, an flared up still higher,

Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer

further back for aw couldn't bide near it;

Th' dull saand o'th' church bells coom to tell me

one moor Christmas mornin,

Had come, for its welcome--but ha could aw

welcome it when all alooan?

For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an th' cold wind wor mooanin,

An them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i'

that cold church yard, under a stooan.

Soa aw went to bed an aw slept, an then began dreamin,

'At mi wife stood by mi side,

an smiled, an mi heart left off its beatin,

An aw put aght mi hand, an awoke, an mornin wor gleamin;

An its made me feel sorrowful, an aw connot give ovver freatin.

For aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha' been,

If awd gooan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares,

nor partin, nor sorrow,

For aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha seen,

But aw'll try to be patient,

an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

It's forty long summers an winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye,"

An as fine a young fella tha wor, as ivver aw met i' mi life;

When tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try,

An aw stopt at hooam to toil on,

becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife.

An shoo wor a bonny young wench, an better nor bonny,--

Aw seem nah as if aw can see her,

wi' th' first little bairn on her knee;

An we called it Ann, for aw liked that name best ov onny,

An fowk said it wor th' pictur o'th' mother,

wi' just a strinklin o' me.

An th' next wor a lad, an th' next wor a lad, then a lass came,--

That made us caant six,--an six happier fowk nivver sat to a meal,

An they grew like hop plants--full o' life--but waikly i'th' frame,

An at last one drooped, an Deeath coom an marked her with his seal.

A year or two moor an another seemed longin to goa,

An all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed,

'at he might sleep sweeter--

Then th' third seemed to sicken an pine, an we couldn't say "noa,"

For he said his sister had called,

an he wor most anxious to meet her--

An how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen,

For we prized it moor,

becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish;

At last her call came, an shoo luked sich a luk at us then,

Which aw ne'er shall forget,

tho' mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.

A few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten,

Mi friends began askin my wife,

if shoo felt hersen hearty an strong?

An aw nivver saw at her face wor beginnin to whiten,

Till shoo grew like a shadow, an aw could'nt even guess wrong.

Then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton

wor shovin in th' gravel,

An he sed, "this last maks five,

an aw think ther's just room for another,"

An aw went an left him, lonely an heartsick to travel,

Till th' time comes when aw may lig daan

beside them four bairns an ther mother.

An aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha been

If aw'd gooan to that place where

ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow;

An aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should nivver ha seen,

But aw'll try to be patient,

an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

Settin Off.

It isn't 'at aw want to rooam

An leeav thi bi thisen:

For aw'm content enuff at hooam,

Aw'm net like other men.

But then ther's thee an childer three,

To care for an protect,

It's reight 'at yo should luk to me,

An wrang should aw neglect.

Aw'm growin older ivvery day,

My race is ommost run,

Time's growin varry precious, lass,

An lots remains undone.

If aw wor called away, maybe,

Tha'd find some other man,

But tha cannot find a father,

For them lads,--do th' best tha can.

Another husband might'nt prove

As kind as aw have been;

An wedded life's a weary thing,

When love's shut aght o'th' scene.

Aw know aw've faults, aw'll own a lot,--

But then, tha must agree,

Aw've allus kept a tender spot

Within mi heart for thee.

An if aw've spokken nowty words

At's made thee cry an freeat;

Aw've allus suffered twice as mich,

An beg'd thi to forget.

Tha'rt th' only woman maks me mad,

Then soothes me wi' a smile,

Then maks mi fancy aw'm a king,

An snubs me all the while,

Nay,--nay,--old lass! it isn't fun

Nor frolics that allure,--

Aw'm strivin for thisen an bairns,

To mak yor futur sure.

It's duty at aw think aw owe

To them young things an thee,

The thowts o' which may cheer mi heart,

When aw lay daan to dee.

To th' Swallow.

Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee,

For tha tells ov breeter weather;

But aw connot quite forgie thee,--

Connot love thee altogether.

'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome--

'Tis the cheerin news tha brings,

Tellin us fine weather will come,

When we see thi dappled wings.

But aw'd rayther have a sparrow,--

Rayther hear a robin twitter;--

Tho' they may net be thi marrow,

May net fly wi' sich a glitter;

But they nivver leeav us, nivver--

Storms may come, but still they stay;

But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shivver,

Up tha mounts an flies away.

Ther's too monny like thee, swallow,

'At when fortun's sun shines breet,

Like a silly buzzard follow,

Doncin raand a bit o' leet.

But ther's few like Robin redbreast,

Cling throo days o' gloom an care;

Soa aw love mi old tried friends best--

Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.

A Wife.

Wod yo leead a happy life?

Aw can show yo ha,--

Get a true an lovin wife,--

(Yo may have one nah.)

If yo have, remember this,

Be a true man to her,

An whativver gooas amiss,

Keep noa secrets throo her.

Some chaps think a wife's a toy,

Just for ther caressin;

But sichlike can ne'er enjoy,

This world's richest blessin.

Some ther are who think 'em slaves,

Fit for nowt but drudgin,

An if owt ther fancy craves,

Give it to 'em grudgin.

Dooant forget yor patient wife,

Like yorsen is human,

For yo owe yor precious life,

To another woman.

Mak her equal wi' yorsen,

(Ten to one shoo's better,)

Tell her all yor plans, an then

If shoo'll help yo, let her.

Oft yo'll find her ready wit,

An her keen perception,

Help yo're slower brains a bit

Wi' some new conception.

Dooant expect 'at wives should be

Like dumb breedin cattle,

Spendin life contentedly

Wi' ther babby's prattle.

If yo happen to be sick,

Then they nurse an tend yo,

An when trubbles gether thick,

They can best befriend yo.

An if sympathy yo need,

Thear yo'll sure receive it,

Yo accept it, but indeed,

Yo but seldom give it.

If life's journey yo'd have breet,

Mak yor wife yor treasure,

Trustin her booath day an neet,

Sharin grief an pleasure.

Then yo'll find her smilin face,

Ivver thear to cheer yo,

An yo'll run a nobler race,

Knowin 'at shoo's near yo.

Heart Brokken.

He wor a poor hard workin lad,

An shoo a workin lass,

An hard they tew'd throo day to day,

For varry little brass.

An oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin day,

An lang'd for th' happy time,

When poverty noa moor should part,

Two lovers i' ther prime.

But wark wor scarce, an wages low,

An mait an drink wor dear,

They did ther best to struggle on,

As year crept after year.

But they wor little better off,

Nor what they'd been befoor;

It tuk 'em all ther time to keep

Grim Want aghtside o'th' door.

Soa things went on, wol Hope at last,

Gave place to dark despair;

They felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts,

An want an toil to share.

At length he screw'd his courage up

To leeav his native shore;

An goa where wealth wor worshipped less,

An men wor valued moor.

He towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear

Just glistened in her e'e;

Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen,

But think sometimes o' me:

An whether tha's gooid luck or ill,

Tha knows aw shall be glad

To see thee safe at hooam agean,

An welcome back mi lad."

"Awl labor on, an do mi best;

Tho' lonely aw must feel,

But awst be happy an content

If tha be dooin weel.

But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll,

An keep us far apart;

Tha's left a poor, poor lass behind,

An taen away her heart."

"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget,

Whearivver aw may rooam,

That bonny face an lovin heart,

Aw've prized soa dear at hooam?

Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this,

'At till next time we meet

Tha'll be mi first thowt ivvery morn,

An last thowt ivvery neet."

He went away an years flew by,

But tidins seldom came;

Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh,

But breathed noa word o' blame;

When one fine day a letter came,

'Twor browt to her at th' mill,

Shoo read it, an her tremblin hands,

An beating heart stood still.

Her fellow workers gathered raand

An caught her as shoo fell,

An as her heead droop'd o' ther arms,

Shoo sighed a sad "farewell."

Poor lass! her love had proved untrue,

He'd play'd a traitor's part,

He'd taen another for his bride,

An broke a trustin heart.

Her doleful stooary sooin wor known,

An monny a tear wor shed;

They took her hooam an had her laid,

Upon her humble bed;

Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come

Her burial fees to pay;

But some poor comrade's undertuk,

To see her put away.

Each gave what little helps they could,

From aght ther scanty stooar;

I' hooaps 'at some 'at roll'd i' wealth

Wod give a trifle moor.

But th' maisters ordered 'em away,

Abaat ther business, sharp!

For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice,

An shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.

Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.

Nay surelee tha's made a mistak;

Tha'rt aght o' thi element here;

Tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack,

Thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear.

Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms

Saand queer sooart o' music to thee;

An tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes

O' miln-greease,--what th' quality be.

Maybe tha'rt disgusted wi' us,

An thinks we're a low offald set,

But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does,

For ther's hooap an ther's pride in us yet.

Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen,

An as humble as humble could be;

An tho we nah are like tha wor then,

We may yet be as nobby as thee.

Tha'd to see thi own livin when young,

An when tha grew up tha'd to spin;

An if labor like that wornt wrong,

Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'

But tha longs to be off aw con tell:

For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content;

Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell

Off tha goas, bonny fly!--An it went.

Rejected.

Gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame,

Tho' mi loss is hard to bide!

For it wod ha' been a shame,

Had tha ivver been the bride

Of a workin chap like me;

One 'ats nowt but love to gie.

Hard hoof'd neives like thease o' mine.

Surely ne'er wor made to press

Hands so lily-white as thine;

Nor should arms like thease caress

One so slender, fair, an' pure,

'Twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure.

But thease tears aw cannot stay,--

Drops o' sorrow fallin fast,

Hopes once held aw've put away

As a dream, an think its past;

But mi poor heart loves thi still,

An' wol life is mine it will.

When aw'm seated, lone and sad,

Wi mi scanty, hard won meal,

One thowt still shall mak me glad,

Thankful that alone aw feel

What it is to tew an' strive

Just to keep a soul alive.

Th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form,

An' wild winds rush madly raand,

But it whistles to the storm,

In the barren home it's faand;

Natur fits it to be poor,

An 'twor vain to strive for moor.

If it for a lily sighed,

An' a lily chonced to grow,

When it found the fair one died,

Powerless to brave the blow

Of the first rude gust o' wind,

Which had left its wreck behind.

Then 'twod own 'twor better fate

Niver to ha' held the prize;

Whins an' lilies connot mate,

Sich is not ther destinies;

Then 'twor wrang for one like me,

One soa poor, to sigh for thee.

Then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame,

Tho' mi loss it's hard to bide,

For it wod ha' been a shame

Had tha iver been mi bride;

Content aw'll wear mi lonely lot,

Tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not.

Persevere.

What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark,

Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo;

Let us buckle to awr wark,

For ther's lots o' jobs to do:

Tho' all th' world luks dark an drear,

Let's ha faith, an persevere.

He's a fooil 'at sits an mumps

'Coss some troubles hem him raand!

Man mud allus be i'th dumps,

If he sulk'd 'coss fortun fraand;

Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:--

Let's ha faith, an persevere.

If we think awr lot is hard,

Nivver let us mak a fuss;

Lukkin raand, at ivvery yard,

We'st find others war nor us;

We have still noa cause to fear!

Let's ha faith, an persevere.

A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say,

Nivver won a lady fair:

Have a will! yo'll find a way!

Honest men ne'er need despair.

Better days are drawin near:--

Then ha faith, an persevere.

Workin men,--nah we've a voice,

An con help to mak new laws;

Let us ivver show awr choice

Lains to strengthen virtue's cause,

Wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer;

This awr motto--'Persevere.'

Let us show to foreign empires

Loyalty's noa empty booast;

We can scorn the thirsty vampires

If they dar molest awr cooast:

To awr Queen an country dear

Still we'll cling an persevere.

The printed version in Yorkshire Lyrics finishes here

These two extra verses are from Yorkshire Ditties First Series.

But as on throo life we hurry,

By whativver path we rooam,

Let us ne'er forget i'th' worry,

True reform begins at hooam:

Then, to prove yorsens sincere,

Start at once; an persevere.

Hard wark, happen yo may find it,

Some dear folly to forsake,

Be detarmined ne'er to mind it!

Think, yor honor's nah at stake.

Th' gooid time's drawin varry near!

Then ha faith, an persevere.

A Pointer.

Just listen to mi stooary lads,

It's one will mak yo grieve;

It's full ov sich strange incidents;

Yo hardly can believe.

That lass aw cooarted, went one neet

Aght walkin wi' a swell;

They ovvertuk me on mi way,

An this is what befell.

They tuk me for a finger pooast;

Aw stood soa varry still;

An daan they set beside me,

Just at top o' Beacon Hill.

He sed shoo wor his deary;

Shoo sed he wor her pet;

'Twor an awkward sittiwation

Which aw shall'nt sooin forget.

Aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill,--

They set daan at mi feet;

He hugged her up soa varry cloise,

Aw thowt ther lips must meet.

He sed he loved wi' all his heart,

Shoo fainted reight away;

Aw darsn't luk,--aw darsn't start,

But aw wished misen away.

They tuk me for, &c.

He bathed her temples from the brook;

He sed shoo wor his life,

It made me queer, becoss aw'd sworn

To mak that lass mi wife.

Shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead,

Upon his heavin breast;

An then shoo skriked, an off aw ran,

But aw cannot tell the rest.

They tuk me for, &c.

They wedded wor, sooin after that,

Aw thowt mi heart wod braik;--

It didn't,--soa aw'm livin on,

An freeatin for her sake.

But sweet revenge,--it coom at last,

For childer shoo had three,

An they're all marked wi' a finger pooast

Whear it didn't owt to be.

They tuk me for, &c.

An Acrostic.

H a! if yo'd nobbut known that lass,

A w'm sure yo'd call her bonny;

N oa other could her charms surpass,

N oa other had as monny.

A n ha aw lost mi peace o' mind,

H ark! an aw'll tell if yor inclined.

C awered in a nook one day aw set,

R aand which wild flaars wor growin;

O, that sweet time aw'st ne'er forget,

S oa long as aw've mi knowin.

T hear aw first saw this lovely lass;

I n thowtful mood shoo tarried,

"C ome be mi bride, sweet maid!" aw cried:

"K eep off!" shoo skriked, "aw'm married!"

Help Thisen.

"Come, help thisen, lad,--help thisen!"

Wor what mi uncle sed.

We'd just come in throo makkin hay,

To get some cheese an breead.

An help misen aw did,--yo bet!

Aw wor a growin lad;

Aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet,

'Twor th' grandest feed aw'd had.

When aw grew up aw fell i' love,--

Shoo wor a bonny lass!

But bein varry young an shy,

Aw let mi chonces pass.

Aw could'nt for mi life contrive

A thing to do or say,

For fear aw should offend her, soa

Aw let her walk away.

But what aw suffered nooan can tell;--

Aw loved her as mi life!

But dursn't ax her for the world

To be mi darlin wife.

Aw desperate grew,--we met,--aw ax'd

For just one kuss,--an then,

Shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls,

But let me help misen.

It's varry monny years sin then,--

Mi hair's nah growin gray;

But oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard

That same owd farmer say,--

When in some fix aw've vainly sowt

For aid from other men,--

"Tha'rt wastin time,--if tha wants help

Pluck up, an help thisen."

If th' prize yo long for seems too heigh,

Dooant let yor spirits drop;

Ther may be lots o' thrustin, but

Yo'll find ther's room at th' top.

Yo connot tell what yo can do

Until yo've had a try;

It may be a hard struggle, but

Yo'll get thear, by-an-bye.

Nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind

An let it be yor creed,

For sooin yo'll find fowk's promises

Are but a rotten reed.

Feight yor own battles bravely throo,

Yo'll sewerly win, an then

Yo'll find ther's lots will help yo,

When yo con help yorsen.

Bless 'em!

O, the lasses, the lasses, God bless 'em!

His heart must be hard as a stooan

'At could willingly goa an distress 'em,

For withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan.

Tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin

For Adam, wor scented soa sweet,

He ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin,

He trampled 'em under his feet.

He long'd to some sweet one to whisper;

An wol sleepin Eve came to his home;

He wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her,

An ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come.

An tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented,

An anxious fowk's saycrets to know,

Pluck'd an apple,--noa daat shoo repented

When shoo saw at it made sich a row.

Tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her;

For aw'm fairly convinced an declare,

'At aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her,

Nor all th' world an noa woman to share.

Then let us be kind to all th' wimmin,

Throo th' poorest to th' Queen up oth' throne,

For if, Eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin,

It's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own.

Act Square.

"Another day will follow this,"

Ah,--that shall sewerly be,

But th' day 'at dawns to-morn, my lad,

May nivver dawn for thee,

This day is thine, soa use it weel,

For fear when it has passed,

Some duty has been left undone

On th' day at proved thy last.

What's passed an gooan's beyond recall,

An th' futer's all unknown;

Dooant specilate on what's to be,

Neglect in what's thi own.

When morn in comes thank God tha'rt spared

To see another day;

An when tha goas to bed at neet,

Life's burdens on Him lay.

Although thy station may be low,

Thy life's conditions hard,

Mak th' best o' what falls to thi lot,

An tha shall win reward.

Man's days ov toil on earth are few

Compared to that long rest

'At stretches throo Eternity,

For them 'at's done ther best.

Though monny rough hills tha's to climb,

An bogs an becks to wade;

Though thorns an brambles chooak thi path,

Yet, push on undismayed.

Detarmination, back'd wi' Faith,

An Hope to cheer thi on,

Shall gie thi strugglin efforts strength,

Until thi journey's done.

Let thi religion be thi life,--

Let ivvery word an deed

Be prompted bi a love for all,

Whativver be ther creed.

Let wranglin praichers twist an twine,

Ther doctrines new an old;

Act square,--an ther is One will see

Tha'rt net left aght i'th' cold.

His Dowter Gate Wed.

He'd had his share ov ups an daans,

His sprees an troubles too;

Ov country joys an life i' taans,

He'd run th' whoal gamut throo.

He labored hard to mak ends meet,

An keep things all ship-shap:

An th' naybor's sed, 'at lived i'th' street,

"He's a varry daycent chap."

He paid his rent an gave his wife

Enuff for clooas an grub,

To pleas her he'd insured his life,

An joined a burial club.

His childer,--grander nivver ran

To climb a father's knee;

Noa better wife had onny man,--

Noa praader chap could be.

He tuk noa stock i' fleetin time,

He nivver caanted th' years;

For he wor hale, just in his prime,

An nowt to cause him fears.

He nivver dreamt ov growin old,

Sich thowts ne'er made him freat,

He sed,--"Why aw'm as gooid as gold,

Aw'm but a youngster yet!"

His childer thrave like willow wands,

An made fine maids an men,

But th' thowt ne'er entered in his nut,

'At he grew old hissen.

His e'en wor oppened one fine day,

His dreams o' youth all fled;

An th' reason on it wor, they say,--

His dowter,--shoo gate wed.

"E'a, gow!" he sed, "but this licks me!

Shoo's but a child hersen,--

Ov all things!--why,--it connot be

Her thowts should turn to men!"

"Whisht!" sed his wife, "we wed as young,

An shoo's moor sense bi far,--

An then tha knows shoo's th' grandest lass

'At lives at Batley Carr."

He gave a grooan, for on his lass

He'd set a deal o' stooar.

He lit his pipe an filled his glass,

Then fixed his e'en o'th' flooar.

"By gum!" he sed, "but this is rough,

Aw ne'er knew owt as bad,

If shoo's a wife, its plain enuff

Aw connot be a lad."

"Aw must be old,--aw say,--old lass,--

Does't think aw'm growin grey?

Gooid gracious! but ha time does pass!

But tha doesn't age a day.

Tha'rt just as buxum nah as then,

Aw'st think tha must feel shamed,

Tha luks as young as her thisen,--

Or could do, if tha framed."

"Aw'st ha to alter all mi ways,--

Noa moor aw'st ha to rooam;--

Just sattle daan an end mi days

Cronkt up bith' hob at hooam.

An 'fore owts long, as like as net,

Wol crooidled up i'th' nook,

Ther'll be some youngster browt, aw'll bet,

To watch his grondad smook."

"Do stop! aw wonder ha tha dar,

Behave thi soa unkind!

Does't think 'at th' lads i' Batley Carr

Are all booath dumb an blind?

Shoo's wed a steady, honest chap,

An shoo's booath gooid an fair,

Ther's net another fit to swap,--

They mak a gradely pair."

"'Man worn't made to live alooan,'

Tha tell'd me that thisen:--

Tha needn't shak thi heead an grooan;--

Tha's happen changed sin then.

But if ther ivver wor a crank,

It's been my luck to see,

It wor my childer's father

When he furst coom coortin me."

"But rest content, its all for th' best;--

An then tha must ha known,--

Shoo thowt it time at shoo possest

A nice hooam ov her own."

"Well--may they prosper! That's my prayer,--

They'st nivver want a friend

Wol aw'm alive,--but aw'st beware,

An watch theas younger end."

All We Had.

It worn't for her winnin ways,

Nor for her bonny face

But shoo wor th' only lass we had,

An that quite alters th' case.

We'd two fine lads as yo need see,

An' weel we love 'em still;

But shoo war th' only lass we had,

An' we could spare her ill.

We call'd her bi mi mother's name,

It saanded sweet to me;

We little thowt ha varry sooin

Awr pet wod have to dee.

Aw used to watch her ivery day,

Just like a oppenin bud;

An' if aw couldn't see her change,

Aw fancied' at aw could.

Throo morn to neet her little tongue

Wor allus on a stir;

Awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp,

But nooan at lispt like her.

Sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks,

'At childer shouldn't play;

But then, they wor soa nicely done,

We let her have her way.

But bit bi bit her spirits fell,

Her face grew pale an' thin;

For all her little fav'rite toys

Shoo didn't care a pin.

Aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads,

Wi monny a doleful nod;

Aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still

Aw couldn't think shoo wod.

Day after day my wife an' me,

Bent o'er that suff'rin child,

Shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me,

Then shut her een an' smiled.

At last her spirit pass'd away;

Her once breet een wor dim;

Shoo'd heeard her Maker whisper 'come,'

An' hurried off to Him.

Fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve,

For God's will must be best;

But when yo've lost a child yo've loved,

It puts yor Faith to th' test.

We pick'd a little bit o' graand,

Whear grass and daisies grew,

An' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon

Ther solemn shadows threw.

We saw her laid to rest, within

That deep grave newly made;

Wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall,

On th' handle ov his spade.

It troubled us to walk away,

An' leeav her bi hersen;

Th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide,

We'd niver felt till then.

But th' hardest task wor yet to come,

That pang can ne'er be towld;

'Twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't,

An' locked her aat i'th' cowld.

'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek,

'Twor then aw felt mooast sad;

For shoo'd been sich a tender plant,

An' th' only lass we had.

But nah we're growin moor resign'd,

Although her face we miss;

For He's blest us wi another,

An we've hopes o' rearin this,

Th' First o'th Sooart.

Aw heeard a funny tale last neet--

Aw could'nt howd fro' laffin--

'Twor at th' Bull's Heead we chonced to meet,

An' spent an haar i' chaffin.

Some sang a song, some cracked a joak,

An' all seem'd full o' larkin;

An' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook,

An' ivery e'e'd a spark in.

Long Joa 'at comes thro th' Jumples cluff,

Wor gettin rayther mazy;

An' Warkus Ned had supped enuff

To turn they're Betty crazy;--

An Bob at lives at th' Bogeggs farm,

Wi' Nan throo th' Buttress Bottom,

Wor treating her to summat wanm,

(It's just his way,--"odd drot em!")

An' Jack o'th' Slade wor theear as weel,

An' Joa o' Abe's throo Waerley;

An' Lijah off o'th' Lavver Hill,

Wor passing th' ale raand rarely.--

Throo raand and square they seem'd to meet,

To hear or tell a stoory;

But th' gem o' all aw heard last neet

Wor one bi Dooad o'th' gloory.

He bet his booits 'at it wor true,

An' all seem'd to believe him;

Tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue--

But 't wodn't ha done to grieve him

His uncle lived i' Pudsey taan,

An' practised local praichin;

An' if he 're lucky, he wor baan

To start a schooil for taichin.

But he wor takken varry ill;

He felt his time wor comin:

(They say he brought it on hissel

Wi' studdyin his summin.)

He call'd his wife an' neighbors in

To hear his deein sarmon,

An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin

Ther lot ud be a warm en.

Then turin raand unto his wife,

Said--"Mal, tha knows, owd craytur,

If awd been bless'd wi' longer life,

Aw might ha' left things straighter.

Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence--

Aw lent it him last lovefeast."

Says Mal--"He has'nt lost his sense--

Thank God for that at least!"

"An Ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows,

We owe him one paand ten.".--

"Just hark!" says Mally, "there he goas!

He's ramellin agean!

Dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk!

Yo see, poor thing, he's ravin!

It cuts me up to hear sich talk--

He spent his life i' savin!

"An Mally lass," he said agean,

"Tak heed o' my direction:

Th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean

My share o'th' last collection.--

Tha'll see to that, an have what's fair

When my poor life is past."--

Says Mally, "listen, aw declare,

He's sensible to th' last."

He shut his een an' sank to rest--

Deeath seldom claimed a better:

They put him by,--but what wor th' best,

He sent 'em back a letter,

To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on;

An' ha he gate to enter;

An' gave 'em rules to act upon

If ever they should ventur.

Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand:

Says he, "What do you want, sir?

If to goa in--yo understand

Unknown to me yo can't sir.--

Pray what's your name? where are yo throo?

Just make your business clear."

Says he, "They call me Parson Drew,

Aw've come throo Pudsey here."

"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say?

Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir;

Aw've kept thease doors too long a day,

Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir."

Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie,

For th' sake o' all ther's in it:

If yo've a map o' England by,

Aw'll show yo in a minit."

Soa Peter gate a time-table--

They gloored o'er th' map together:

Drew did all at he wor able,

But could'nt find a stiver.

At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall,

An thear stands Braforth mission:

It's just between them two--that's all:

Your map's an old edition.

But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan,

An' if yo've niver known it,

Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan,

Tho mony be 'at scorn it."

He oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "It's time

Some body coom--aw'll trust thee.

Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine--

Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."

Poor Old Hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown

An fowk call us old fashioned an odd;

But monny's the storm we have met sin that day,

When aw bowt thee all shiny an snod.

As aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo,

Fowk's manners wor cappin to see;

An aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,'

But aw know nah they nodded at thee.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside,

For awr friendship has lasted too long;

Tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride,

Tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng.

Dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind,

If another aw put i thi place;

For aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind,

Tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be,

Aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen;

An be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee

An have nubdy to care for me then.

But one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel,

An tha gave thi best days to mi use;

Noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel,

For aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door,

Tha may happen be punced abaat th' street,

For like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor,

It wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet.

Wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass,

An fowk rave ov antique this an that,

An they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas!

Ther's nubdy respects an old hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do,

To burn thi aw havnt the heart,

If aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo,

An thart seedy enuff as tha art.

Tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead,

Soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin,

For aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead,

An aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot,

If thart useful what moor can ta be?

Better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot,

An remember thart useful to me.

Though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized,

Tha but does what all earthly things must,

For though we live honored, or perish despised,--

We're at last but a handful o' dust.

Done Agean.

Aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish,

We've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack,

We've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish,

An wi' currens its varry near black;

We've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink,

We've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock,

We've a load o' puttates under th' sink,

So we're pretty weel off as to jock.

Aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide,

But the cause aw dar hardly let aat;

It suits me moor nor all else beside:

Aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw can nah have a spree to misel;

Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass;

An' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tell

My old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass.

Some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed,

He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife;

If he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed,

'At it's sure to breed trouble an strife;

If it does aw'm net baan to throw up,

Though awd mich rayther get on withaat;

But who wodn't risk a blow up,

For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet,

For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob,

Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't,

'At mi frolic wod prove a done job.

But aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face,

To mak sure at its safe in its nick;--

But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place!

Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.

Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me,

An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat,

For it connot be th' wife, coss you see

It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.

But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side,

An' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin;

To chait her aw've monny a time tried,

But I think it's nah time to give in,

A chap may be deep as a well,

But a woman's his maister when done;

He may chuckle and flatter hissel,

But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.

It's a rayther unpleasant affair,

Yet it's better it's happened noa daat;

Aw'st be fain to come in for a share

O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.

What it is to be a Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!

At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,

Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother,

An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer,

Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun,

Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder

Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner,

An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest;

Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"

An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em,

They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed;

For quiet yo niver can catch 'em

Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.

For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us

'At one on em's takken wi' fits;

Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus,

An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd,

But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe;

To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it,

Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin',

Aw try to be gradely, an' straight;

For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin',

He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished

Wi allus been kept in a fuss,

He says, as he looks up astonished,

"Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin',

Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags?

But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in--

They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an' it will be,

A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt;

But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me,

For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin'

Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight;

An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin',

For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o' my weshin',

An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried;

Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen,

An' mangle, an' iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin';

Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew;

Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin',

An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.

Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets,

Stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend,

Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver,

An' that brings a week's wark to its end.

Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner,

It's ther only warm meal in a wick;

Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner,

For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.

But a chap mun be like to ha' summat,

An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang,

Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner,

Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.

But if yor a wife an' a mother,

Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind;

Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother,

An' to yor own comforts be blind.

But still, just to seer all ther places,

When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet,

Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces;

It's nooan a despisable seet.

An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin',

(Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean),

'At if single, aw sooin should be playin'

Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.

What they say.

They say 'at its a waste o' brass--a nasty habit too,--

A thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do;

Maybe they're reight;

They say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,--

Aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft,

At ther consait.

At morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet,

An aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet,

It comforts me.

An if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day,

Aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away,

An off they flee.

They tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show;

Aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow,

An bad to tell;

They say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war;

But aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as far

As me misel.

They say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,--

For owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget,

That's varry true.

But aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee,

To smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me:

Aw'st manage throo,

They say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,--

It may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs;

Aw work mi share.

If it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men,

'Twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;--

They've time to spare.

But what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan,

If th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can,

At morn or neet;

They may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse,

But aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use.

Pass me a leet.

Young Jockey.

Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin,

Ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin!

Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin,

For he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin;

An he went to ax Jenny his wife for to be,

But shoo sed, "Nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee,

Thi legs luk too lanky,

Thi heead is too cranky,

Its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!"

Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun,

Un, un, ry diddle dun!

Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun,

For his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done;

An he went an tell'd Jenny, to end all his pains,

He'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains,

But shoo cared net a pin,

An shoo sed wi' a grin,--

"Befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in."

Missed his Mark.

Aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim,

An even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame;

Its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success,

Th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less.

Aw envy nubdy Fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,--

But them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then.

An them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark,

An nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.

We connot allus hit it,--an ther's monny a toilin brain,

Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain;

An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away,

An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay;

Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame,

An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game;

Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark,

Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.

Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,--

Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains!

Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,--

For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod.

Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride,

Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side!

Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark,

Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.

Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;--

Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes;

Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,--

If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below.

An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end,

He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend.

An when they gently put him by,--unconscious, stiff an stark,

His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'

When Lost.

If at hooam yo have to tew,

Though yor comforts may be few,

An yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad;

Yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight,

Wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt,

But yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad.

Though yo've but a humble cot,

An yore share's a seedy lot;

Though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad,

Yet yo'll find its mich moor wise,

What yo have to fondly prize,

For yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad.

Mak a Gooid Start.

Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear

What grum'lers an growlers may say;

That nivver need cause yo a tear,

For whear ther's a will ther's a way.

If yo've plenty to ait an to drink,

Nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough;

If yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think,

Yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff.

If yor temper gets saar'd an cross,

An yor mind is disturbed an perplext;

Or if troubled wi' sickness an loss,

An yor poverty maks yo feel vext;--

Nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeat

Abaat things at yo connot prevent;

An i'th futer ther may be a treeat,

'At'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent,

I' this new life beginnin,--who knows

What for each on us may be i' stoor?

For th' river o' Time as it flows,

Weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door.

At some it leeavs little, may be,

An at others deposits a prize;

But if yo be watchful yo'll see

Ther's a trifle for each one 'at tries.

Ther's a time booath to wish an decide;--

For a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews;--

If yo snuff aght ambition an pride,

Yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes,

Wish for summat 'at's honest an reight,

An detarmine yo'll win it or dee!

Yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate,

An th' black claads o' daat quickly flee.

Young men should seek labor an gains,

Old men wish for rest an repose;--

Young lasses want brave, lovin swains,

An hanker for th' finest o' clooas.

Old wimmin,--a cosy foirside,

An a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah;

Little childer, a horse they can ride,

Or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee.

One thing a chap cant do withaat,

Is a woman to share his estate;

An mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat,

Think life a dull thing baght a mate.

Ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise,

An its one at should be acted upon;--

Yo'll do weel, to accept its advice,--

To, "Begin as yo meean to goa on."

Stop at Hooam.

"Tha wodn't goa an leave me, Jim,

All lonely by mysel?

My een at th' varry thowts grow dim--

Aw connot say farewell.

Tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless

Tha saw me every day,

An' said tha knew noa happiness

When aw wor foorced away.

An th' tales tha towld, I know full weel,

Wor true as gospel then;

What is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel

Soa strange--unlike thisen?

Ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find,

I'th taan whear tha wor born,

To mak a livin, if tha'll mind

To ha' faith i' to-morn.

Aw've mony a time goan to mi wark

Throo claads o' rain and sleet;

All's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark,

It ommust mud be neet.

But then, when braikfast time's come raand,

Aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray,

An' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk

Like skulkin lads away.

An' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet

Aw've sowt some shade to rest,

An' as aw've paddled hooam at neet,

Glorious it's sunk i'th west.

An' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee,

(An' trouble's hard to bide),

Have patience, lad, an' wait an' see

What's hid o'th' tother side.

If aw wor free to please mi mind,

Aw'st niver mak this stur;

But aw've a mother ommust blind,

What mud become o' her?

Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik

An' helpless ivery limb,

Aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik

If aw'd to leave her, Jim.

Aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees

'At tower up to th' sky,

An' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze,

Lie glitterin' jewels fly.

Woll th' music of a shepherd's reed

May gently float along,

Lendin its tender notes to lead

Some fair maid's simple song;

An' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side,

Such as we niver see;

But here at hooam, at ivery stride,

There's flaars for thee an' me.

Aw care net for ther suns soa breet,

Nor warblin melody;

Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet

Saands sweeter, lad, to me.

An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan,

A claat is noa disgrace;

Tha'll niver find a heart moor warm

Beat under silk or lace.

Then settle daan, tak my advice,

Give up this wish to rooam!

An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice

Worth stoppin' for at hooam."

"God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e,

An' gi'e us howd thi hand!

For words like thoase, throo sich as thee,

What mortal could withstand!

It isn't mich o'th' world aw know,

But aw con truly say,

A faithful heart's too rich to throw

Withaat a thowt away.

So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan,

Aw'll tew for thine and thee,

An' seek for comfort when cast daan,

I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e."

Advice to Jenny.

Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee,

An' dunnot luk soa sad;

It grieves me varry mich to see

Tha freeats abaat yon lad;

For weel tha knows, withaat a daat,

Whearivver he may be,

Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat,

He's allus true to thee.

Tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while,

For wisdom comes wi' time,

An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile

At troubles sich as thine;

A faithful chap is better far,

Altho' he likes to rooam,

Nor one 'at does what isn't reight,

An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.

Tha needn't think 'at wedded life

Noa disappointment brings;

Tha munnot think to keep a chap

Teed to thi appron strings.

Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet,

An' let thi heart be glad,

For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet,

Tha's wed a honest lad.

Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great,

'At's sarvents at her call,

Wod freely change her grand estate

For thine tha thinks soa small:

For riches cannot buy content,

Soa tho' thi joys be few,

Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,--

A heart 'at's kind an' true.

Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay,

An' meet him wi' a kiss,

Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay

Wi treatment sich as this;

But if thi een luk red like that,

He'll see all's wrang at once,

He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat,

An' bolt if he's a chonce.

Jockey an Dolly.

Th' sun shone breet at early morn,

Burds sang sweetly on the trees;

Larks wor springin from the corn,

Tender blossoms sowt the breeze.

Jockey whistled as he went

O'er rich meadows wet wi' dew;

In his breast wor sweet content,

For his wants an cares were few.

Dolly passed him on his way,

Fresh an sweet an fair wor she;

Jockey lost his heart that day,

To the maid ov Salterlee.

Jockey an Dolly

Had allus been jolly,

Till Love shot his arrow an wounded the twain;

Their days then pass sadly,

Yet man an maid madly,

In spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain.

Since that day did jockey pine,

Dolly shyly kept apart;

Still shoo milk'd her willin kine,

Tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart,

But one neet they met i'th' fold,

When a silv'ry mooin did shine;

Jockey then his true love told,

An he axt, "will't thou be mine?"

Tears ov joy filled Dolly's een,

As shoo answered modestly;

Dolly nah is Jockey's queen,

Th' bonniest wife i' Salterlee.

Jockey an Dolly,

Are livin an jolly,

May blessins for ivver attend i' ther train;

Ther days they pass gladly,

Noa moor they feel sadly,

For two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' Love's chain.

Dooant Forget the Old Fowks.

Dooant forget the old fowks,--

They've done a lot for thee;

Remember tha'd a mother once,

Who nursed thi on her knee.

A father too, who tew'd all day

To mak thi what tha art,

An dooant forget tha owes a debt,

An strive to pay a part.

Just think ha helpless once tha wor,--

A tiny little tot;

But tha wor given th' cosiest nook

I' all that little cot.

Thy ivvery want wor tended to,

An soothed thy ivvery pain,

They didn't spare love, toil or care,

An they'd do it o'er ageean.

An all they crave for what they gave,

Is just a kindly word;--

A fond "God bless yo parents,"

Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c.

Tha's entered into business nah,--

Tha'rt dooin pratty weel;

Tha's won an tha desarves success,--

Aw know tha'rt true as steel.

Tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style,

Tha's sarvents at thi call;

But dooant forget thi mother, lad,

To her tha owes it all.

Thi father totters in his walk,

His hair is growin grey;

He cannot work as once he did,

He's ommost had his day.

But th' heart 'at loved thi when a child,

Is still as warm an true;

His pride is in his lad's success,--

He hopes tha loves him too.

But what they long for mooast ov all,

Is just that kindly word,

"God bless yo, my dear parents!"

Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c,

Soa Bonny.

Aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea,

An aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be;

But aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad,

Like her,--for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad.

Shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot,

An when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot;

An it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad,

But oh! shoo wor bonny!--soa bonny mi lad.

Consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt,

An shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt;

An shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;---

For shoo knew shoo wor bonny,--soa bonny mi lad.

Fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand,

But whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand;

For th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad,

For shoo wor soa bonny,--soa bonny mi lad.

But shoo wor like th' rest,--false,--false in her heart;

Shoo made me to love her,--an Cupid's sharp dart

Wor nobbut her fun,--wi' decait it wor clad;--

But then, shoo wor bonny;--soa bonny mi lad.

Shoo sooin wed another,--noa better nor me,

An aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree;

An aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad,

But oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad.

Ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled,

Shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled;

Shoo may seek me agean;--if shoo does,--well, by gad!

Aw'll welcome her back. Shoo's soa bonny mi lad.

The Linnet.

Little linnet,--stop a minnit,--

Let me have a tawk with thee:

Tell me what this life has in it,

Maks thee seem so full o' glee?

Why is pleasure i' full measure,

Thine throo rooasy morn to neet,

Has ta fun some wondrous treasure,

Maks thi be for ivver breet?

----------

Sang the linnet,--"wait a minnit,

Let me whisper in thine ear;

Life has lots o' pleasure in it,

Though a shadow's oftimes near.

Ivvery shoolder has its burden,

Ivvery heart its weight o' care;

But if bravely yo accept it,

Duty finds some pleasure thear.

Lazy louts dooant know what rest is,--

Those who labor find rest sweet;

Grumling souls ne'er know what best is,--

Blessins wither 'neath ther feet.

Sorrow needs noa invitation,--

Joy is shy an must be sowt;

Grief seeks onny sitiwation,--

Willin to accept for nowt.

All pure pleasure is retirin,

Allus modest,--shrinkin,--shy,--

Like a violet,--but goa seek it,

An yo'll find it by-an-bye.

Birds an blossoms,--shaars an sunshine,

Strive to cheer man on his way;

An its nobbut them 'at willn't,

'At cant taste some joy each day.

Awm a teeny little songster,--

All mi feathers plainly grave;

But aw wish noa breeter plumage,

Awm content wi' what aw have.

An mi mate is just as lovin,

An he sings as sweet to me,--

An his message nivver varies,--

'Love me love, as aw love thee.'

An together, o'er awr nestlins,

We keep watch, i' hooaps to see,

They may sooin share in awr gladness

Full ov love,--from envy free.

Grumbler,--cast a look araand thi;--

Is this world or thee to blame?

Joys an blessins all surraand thi,--

Dar to grummel?--fie,--for shame!"

----------

An that linnet, in a minnit,

Flitted off, the trees among;

An those joys its heart had in it,

Ovverflowed i' limpid song.

An it left me sittin, blinkin,

As it trill'd its nooats wi glee;--

An truly,--to my way o' thinkin,

Th' linnet's far moor sense nor me.

Mary Jane.

One Easter Mundy, for a spree,

To Bradforth, Mary Jane an me,

Decided we wod tak a jaunt,

An have a dinner wi mi hont;

For Mary Jane, aw'd have yo know,

Had promised me, some time ago,

To be mi wife,--an soa aw thowt

Aw'd introduce her, as aw owt.

Mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,--

To mak fowk welcome nivver looath,--

An th' table grooaned wi richest fare,

An one an all wor pressed to share,

Mi sweetheart made noa moor to do.

Shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe;

Mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass,--

"Well, God bless thi belly, lass!"

Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel,

Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel;

Shoo luks soa delicate an fair,

Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air.

But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed,

For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist;

Whear once shoo's called to get a snack,

It's seldom at they've axt her back.

To a cookshop we went one neet,

An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet,

Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin,

But shoo went on an tuckt it in;

An when aw axt ha mich we'd had,

He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad."

Aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,--

"Well, God bless thi belly lass!"

But when a lass's een shine bright,

Yo ne'er think ov her appetite;

Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain,

Nor did mi efforts prove in vain,

For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day,

An started life on little pay.

But aw've noa reason to regret,

Her appetite shoo keeps up yet.

Eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine,

An nah awr family numbers nine.

A chap when wedded life begins,

Seldom expects a brace o' twins;

But Mary Jane's browt that for me,--

Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee;

An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass,

Aw say, "God bless thi belly lass!"

We have noa wealth i' gold or lands,

But cheerful hearts, an willin hands;

Altho soa monny maaths to fill,

We live i' hooaps an labor still.

Ther little limbs when stronger grown,

Will be a fortun we shall own.

We're in a mooild thro morn to neet,

But rest comes to us doubly sweet,

An fowk learn patience, yo can bet,

When they've to care for sich a set.

But we can honestly declare,

Ther isn't one at we can spare.

Ther little tricks cause monny a smile,

An help to leeten days o' toil.

An joyfully aw say, "Bith' mass!

Well, God bless thi childer, lass."

My Lass.

Fairest lass amang the monny,

Hair as black as raven, O.

Net another lass as bonny,

Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.

City lasses may be fairer,

May be donned i' silks an laces,

But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer,

Nooan can show sich bonny faces.

Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre,

Show thou art no craven, O;

In thy strains 'at mooast inspire,

Sing the praise ov Craven, O.

Purest breezes toss their tresses,

Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O,

An old Sol wi' warm caresses,

Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O.

Others may booast birth an riches,

May have studied grace ov motion,

But they lack what mooast bewitches,--

Hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion.

Perfect limbs an round full bosoms,

Sich as set men ravin, O,

Only can be faand i' blossoms,

Sich as bloom i' Craven, O,

An amang the fairest,--sweetest,

Ther's net sich a brave en, O;

For her beauty's the completest,

Yo can find i' Craven, O.

Ivvery charm 'at mother Nature

Had to give, shoo placed upon her,---

Modest ways, an comely feature--

Health ov body,--soul ov honor

Isn't shoo a prize worth winnin?

An a gem worth savin, O?

Smile on,--sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin,

When my lass leeaves Craven, O.

A Gooid Kursmiss Day.

It wor Kursmiss day,--we wor ready for fun,

Th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done;

Th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin,

An th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in.

Th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas,

An th' lasses,--they each luckt as sweet as a rooas;

An th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob,

An th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob,

An aw sed, "Nah, old lass,

Tho we havn't mich brass,

We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

Th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock,

Yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock,

But we winkt one at tother as mich as to say,

They mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay.

Then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside,

An they couldn't ha made mich moor din if they'd tried,

For they skriked an they giggled an shaated like mad,

An th' wife sed, "They're happy," an aw sed, "Awm glad,

An be thankful old lass,

Tho we havn't mich brass,

We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

When twelve o'clock struck, th' wife says "aw'll prepare,

An ov ivvery gooid thing they shall all have a share;

But aw think some o'th' lasses should help me for once,"

An aw answered, "ov coorse,--they'll be glad ov a chonce."

Soa aw went to call em, but nivver a sign

Could aw find o' them strackle-brained childer o' mine;

An when th' wife went ith' cellar for th' puddin an th' beef,

An saw th' oppen winder, it filled her wi grief,

An shoo sed, "nay old lad,

This is rayther too bad,

We can't celebrate Kursmiss to-day,"

Aw went huntin raand, an ith' weshus aw faand,

Some bits o' cold puddin, beef, spicecake an cheese;

Then aw heard a big shaat, an when aw lukt agivt,

Them taistrels wor laffin as hard as yo pleeas.

Aw felt rayther mad,--but ov coorse awm ther dad,

An as it wor Kursmiss aw tuk it as fun;

But what made me capt, wor th' ale worn't tapt,

Soa mi old wife an me stuck to that wol 'twor done.

An aw railly did feel

We enjoyed ussen weel,

An we had a gooid Kursmiss that day.

Mi Love's Come Back.

Let us have a jolly spree,

An wi' joy an harmonie,

Let the merry moments flee,

For mi love's come back.

O, the days did slowly pass,

When awd lost mi little lass,

But nah we'll have a glass,

For mi love's come back.

O, shoo left me in a hig,

An shoo didn't care a fig,

But nah aw'll donce a jig,

For mi love's come back,

An aw know though far away,

'At her heart ne'er went astray,

An awst ivver bless the day,

For mi love's come back.

When shoo axt me yesterneet,

What made mi een soa breet?

Aw says, "Why cant ta see'ts

'Coss mi love's come back,"

Then aw gave her sich a kiss,

An shoo tuk it nooan amiss;--

An awm feeard awst brust wi bliss,

For mi love's come back.

Nah, awm gooin to buy a ring,

An a creddle an a swing,

Ther's noa tellin what may spring,

Nah, mi love's come back;

O, aw nivver thowt befooar,

'At sich joy could be i' stooar,

But nah aw'll grieve noa moor,

For mi love's come back.

A Wife.

Who is it, when one starts for th' day

A cheerin word is apt to say,

At sends yo leeter on yor way?

A wife.

An who, when th' wark is done at neet,

Sits harknin for yor clogs i'th' street,

An sets warm slippers for yor feet?

A wife.

An who, when yo goa weary in,

Bids th' childer mak a little din,

An smiles throo th' top o'th' heead to th' chin?

A wife.

An who, when troubled, vext an tried,

Comes creepin softly to yor side,

An soothes a grief 'at's hard to bide?

A wife.

An when yor ommost driven mad,

Who quiets yo daan, an calls yo "lad,"

An shows yo things are nooan soa bad?

A wife.

Who nivver once forgets that day,

When yo've to draw yor bit o' pay,

But comes to meet yo hawf o'th' way?

A wife.

Who is it, when yo hooamward crawl,

Taks all yo have, an thinks it small;

Twice caants it, an says, "Is this all?"

A wife.

All Tawk.

Some tawk becoss they think they're born

Wi' sich a lot o' wit;

Some seem to tawk to let fowk know

They're born withaat a bit.

Some tawk i' hooaps 'at what they say

May help ther fellow men;

But th' inooast 'at tawk just tawk becoss

They like to hear thersen.

Aw Can't Tell.

Aw nivver rammel mich abaat,

Aw've summat else to do;

But yet aw think, withaat a daat,

Aw've seen a thing or two.

One needn't leeav his native shoor,

An visit foreign lands,--

At hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moor

Nor what he understands.

Aw can't tell why a empty heead

Should be held up soa heigh,

Or why a suit o' clooas should leead

Soa monny fowk astray.

Aw can't tell why a child 'at's born

To lord or lady that,

Should be soa worship'd, wol they scorn

A poor man's little brat.

Aw can't tell why a workin man

Should wear his life away,

Wol maisters grasp at all they can,

An grudge a chap his pay.

Aw can't tell why a lot o' things

Are as they seem to be;

But if its nowt to nubdy else,

Ov coorse its nowt to me.

Happen Thine.

Then its O! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know!

Who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow,

Who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise,

An who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways.

Shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam,

Shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come;

Shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may,

Shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way.

At morn when her husband sets off to his wark,

Shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark;

An at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back,

An if worried forgets all his cares in a crack.

If onny naybor is sick or distressed,

Shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best;

An if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace,

They fly straight to her and they tell her ther case.

Shoo harkens--an then in a motherly tone

Sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own;

Shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way,

To return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray.

Soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight,

Yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight.

Shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,--

Shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born.

Shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had,

For her principal joy is to see others glad;

Shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own,

Has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan.

If failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,--

Shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;--

To know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;--

If shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad.

Contrasts.

If yo've a fancy for a spree,

Goa up to Lundun, same as me,

Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see,

To pleeas yo weel.

If seem isn't quite enuff,

Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff,

To find some awkard sooarts o' stuff

At yo can feel.

Yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe

On some poleeceman's tender toa,--

A varry simple thing to do,--

An wi a crack

Enuff to mak a deead man jump,

Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump,

An then he'll fling yo wi a bump,

Flat o' yor back.

If signs o' riches suit yo best,

Yer een can easily be blest;

Or if yo seek for fowk distrest,

They're easy fun,

Wi faces ommost worn to nowt,

An clooas at arn't worth a thowt,

Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt,

Till fairly done.

Like a big ball it rolls along,

A nivver ending, changing throng,

Mixt up together, waik an strong,--

An gooid an bad.

Virtues an vices side bi side,--

Poverty slinkin after pride,--

Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide,

Some gay, some sad.

It ommost maks one have a daat,

(To see some strut, some crawl abaat,

One in a robe, one in a claat,)

If all's just square.

It may be better soa to be,

But to a simpleton like me,

It's hard to mak sich things agree;

It isn't fair.

To Mally.

Its long sin th' parson made us one,

An yet it seems to me,

As we've gooan thrustin, toilin on,

Time's made noa change i' thee.

Tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,--

Tha's nivver stopt it yet;

An aw expect tha'll growl away

Th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get.

Growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind!

It nivver troubles me;

Aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,--

Ther's lots 'at's war nor thee.

An if tha's but a hooamly face,

Framed in a white starched cap,

Ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,--

Ther's nooan aw'd like to swap.

Soa aw'll contented jog along,--

It's th' wisest thing to do;

Aw've seldom need to use im tongue,

Tha tawks enuff for two.

Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed,

An finds me clooas to don;

An if to-day aw worn't wed,

Aw'd say to thee,--"Come on."

Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,

Ov that yo may be sewer;

Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!

An th' biggest wor her yure.

Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,

But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,

They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,

It wor soa varry red.

Young fowk we know are seldom wise,--

Experience taiches wit;--

Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes

Is net as black as jet.

Wol others seem quite in a stew,

An can't tell whear to bide,

'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,--

An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,

It had a ruddy cast;

An once shoo heeard a silly fop,

Say as he hurried past--

"There goes the girl I'd like to wed,--

'Twould grant my heart's desire;

In spring pull carrots from her head,--

In winter 'twould save fire."

Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,--

Shoo made a fearful vow,

To have to some fresh color turned

That yure upon her brow.

Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop,

An dyed all sooarts o' things;

An off shoo went withaat a stop,

As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.

Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale,

An tears stood in her ee;

"Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail

If axt, to dye for thee.

What color could ta like it done?

Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can;

We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun,

But aw think aw know a plan."

"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can;

Black's sewer to suit me best;

Aw dooant care if its black an tan,--

Mi life's been sich a pest.

For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't,

Ther's lots noa better bred,

Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight,

Becoss mi yure's soa red."

"Come on ageean to-morn at neet,

Aw'll have all ready, lass;

An if aw connot do it reight

Aw'll ax thi for noa brass."

Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean,

An into bed shoo popt,

Her fowk wor capt what it could meean,

For thear th' next day shoo stopt,

When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd,

An off shoo went to th' place;

Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd,

Or one i' dire disgrace.

"Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah,

It's stewin here i'th' pan;

Aw'll dip thi heead,--hold,--steady nah!

Just bide it if tha can."

Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might,

But as all th' doors wor shut,

He nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet,

It weant do baght its wut.

To leearn mi trade, for twenty year,

Throo morn to neet aw've toiled,

An know at nawther hanks nor heeads,

Are weel dyed unless boiled.

But as tha'rt varry tender,

An aw've takken th' job i' hand,

Aw'll try it rayther cooiler,--

But then, th' color might'nt stand."

An for a while he swilled an slopt,

Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd;

An when he wrung it aght an stopt,

He varry near wor floored.

For wol thrang workin wi' her yure,

He'd been soa taen wi' th' case,

He'd nivver gein a thowt befooar,

Abaat her neck an face.

But nah he saw his sad mistak,

Yet net a word he sed;

Her skin wor all a deep blue black,

Her yure, a dark braan red.

He gate her hooam sooin as he could,

Shoo slyly slipt up stairs;

An chuckled to think ha shoo should

Tak all th' fowk unawares.

Shoo slept that neet just like a top,

Next morn shoo rose content,

Shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop,

An then daan stairs shoo went.

All th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,--

Th' old fowk they stared like mad;--

"Nay, Sally! has ta lost thi wits?

Or has ta seen th' Old Lad?"

Shoo smil'd an sed, "Well, what's to do?"

"Gooid gracious! whear's ta been?

Thi face has turned a breet sky blue,

Thi yure's a bottle green!"

Shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see,

An then her heart stood still;

"That villan sed 'he'd dee for me,'

Aw'll swing for him, aw will!"

An then shoo set her daan o'th flooar,

As if her heart wod braik;

An th' childer gethered raand to rooar,

But th' old fowk nivver spaik.

I' time her grief grew less, ov course,

Shoo raased hersen at last;

Shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse,

For th' color still proved fast.

They sent a bobby after th' chap,

He browt him in a crack;

Says he, "It's been a slight mishap,

Aw've made a small mistak.

But just to prove aw meant noa ill,

Mi offer, friends, is this;

If shoo'll consent to say 'I will,'

Aw'll tak her as shoo is.

Tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed,

That's sewer to wear away;

Aw'd like to own her yure soa red,

Until time turns it grey."

Says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks,

Tha'rt strivin to misleead."

"Nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks,

But tha's fair turned my heead."

"Aw think yo'd better far agree,"

Sed th' old fowk in a breeath;

"Will ta ha me?" "Will ta ha me?"

"An nah we'll stick till deeath."

Sooin after that th' law made 'em one,

An sin that time awm sewer;

He ne'er regretted th' job he'd done,

Nor shoo her ruddy yure.

An when fowk ax'd her ha to get

Sich joy as hers, shoo sed,

"If anxious for some gradely wit,

Just goa an boil thi heead."

Try a Smile.

This world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it,

Yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain;

Some grummel at times when they might do withaat it,

An oft withaat reason complain.

A fraan on a face nivver adds to its beauty,

Then let us forget for a while

Theas small disappointments, an mak it a duty,

To try the effect ov a smile.

Though the sun may be claaded he'll shine aght agean,

If we nobbut have patience an wait,

An its sewer to luk breeter for th' shadda ther's been;

Then let's banish all fooilish consait,

If we'd nivver noa sorrow joys on us wod pall,

Soa awr hearts let us all reconcile

To tak things as they come, makkin th' best on 'em all,

An cheer up a faint heart wi' a smile.

Growin Old.

Old age, aw can feel's creepin on,

Aw've noa taste for what once made me glad;

Mi love ov wild marlocks is gooan,

An aw know awm noa longer a lad.

When aw luk back at th' mile stooans aw've pass'd,

As aw've thowtlessly stroll'd o'er life's track,

Awm foorced to acknowledge at last,

'At its mooastly been all a mistak.

Aw know aw can ne'er start agean,

An what's done aw can nivver undo,

All aw've gained has been simply to leearn

Ha mi hooaps, one bi one's fallen throo.

When a lad, wi' moor follies nor brains,

Aw thowt what awd do as a man;

An aw caanted mi profits an gains,

As a lad full ov hooap only can.

An aw thowt when mi beard 'gan to grow,

Aw could leead all this world in a string,

Yet it tuk but a few years to show

'At aw couldn't do onny sich thing.

But aw tewd an aw fowt neet an day,

An detarmined awd nivver give in,

Hooap still cheered me on wi' her ray,

An awd faith 'at i'th' long run awst win.

A fortun aw felt wor for me,

An joy seem'd i'th' grasp o' mi list;

An aw laffd as aw clutched it wi' glee,

But someha or other it miss'd.

Still, aw pluckt up mi courage once moor,

An aw struggled wi' might an wi' main,

But awd noa better luck nor befooar,

An mi harvest wor sorrow an pain.

An nah, when mi best days are passed,

An mi courage an strength are all spent;

Aw've to stand o' one side an at last,

Wi' mi failures an falls rest content,

In this world some pleasures to win,

Aw've been trubbled an tried an perplext,

An aw've thowtlessly rushed into sin,

An ne'er cared for a treasure i'th' next.

As mi limbs get moor feeble an waik,

An aw know sooin mi race will be run;

Mi heart ommost feels fit to braik,

When aw think what aw've left all undone.

Nah, aw've nobbut th' fag end o' mi days

To prepare for a world withaat end;

Soa its time aw wor changin mi ways.

For ther's noa time like the present to mend

Gooid Bye, Old Lad.

Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend,

Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi;

Let friendship simmer on to th' end;--

God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!

Aw prize thee just for what tha art;--

Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station;

But just becoss aw know thi heart,

Finds honest worth an habitation.

Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black,

Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it:

Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack,

Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.

Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave,

Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,'

'At wodn't gie a meg to save

A luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.

Praichers an taichers seem to swarm,

But sad to tell,--th' plain honest fact is,

They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm,

Nor put ther taichin into practice.

But thee,--aw read thee like a book,--

Aw judge thi booath bi word an action;

An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look,

An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.

Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad!

An till we meet agean, God bless thi!

May smilin fortun mak thi glad,

An may noa ills o' life distress thi.

That Drabbled Brat.

Goa hooam,--tha little drabbled brat,

Tha'll get thi deeath o' cold;

Whear does ta live? Just tell me that,

Befooar aw start to scold.

Thart sypin weet,--dooant come near me!

Tha luks hawf pined to deeath;

An what a cough tha has! dear me!

It ommost taks thi breeath.

Them een's too big for thy wee face,--

Thi curls are sad neglected;

Poor child! thine seems a woeful case,

Noa wonder tha'rt dejected.

Nah, can't ta tell me who tha art?

Tha needn't think aw'll harm thi;

Here, tak this sixpence for a start,

An find some place to warm thi.

Tha connot spaik;--thi een poor thing,

Are filled wi' tears already;

Tha connot even start to sing,

Thi voice is soa unsteady.

It isn't long tha'll ha to rooam,

An sing thi simple ditty;

Tha doesn't seem to be at hooam,

I' this big bustlin city.

It's hard to tell what's best to be

When seets are soa distressin;

For to sich helpless bairns as thee,

Deeath seems to be a blessin.

Some hear thi voice an pass thi by,

An feel noa touch o' sorrow;

An, maybe, them at heave a sigh,

Laff it away to-morrow.

For tha may sing, or sigh, or cry;

Nay,--tha may dee if needs be;

An th' busy craads 'at hurries by,

Streeams on an nivver heeds thee.

But ther is One, hears ivvery grooan,

We needn't to remind Him;

An He'll net leeav thi all alooan;

God give thee grace to find Him!

An may be send His angels daan,

Thi feet throo dangers guidin;

Until He sets thee in His craan,--

A gem, in light abidin.