Sall at Bog.
Me love is like the pashan dock,
That grows it summer fog;
And tho’ sho’s but a country lass,
I like my Sall at Bog.
I walk’d her aht up Rivock End,
And dahn a bonny dale,
Whear golden balls an kahslips grow,
An butter cups do smell.
We sat us dahn at top o’t grass,
Cloyce to a runnin brook,
An harkend watter wegtails sing
Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.
Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout
Az t’sun shane in her een,
Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar
At ivver aw hed seen.
’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love,
Beneath t’oud hazel tree;
How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog,
How dearly sho liked me.
An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,
Aw vow be all aw see,
Aw wish that aw mud be a kah,
An it belong ta thee.
Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah
What awther on us said;
At onny rate we parted friends,
An boath went home ta bed.
Th’ Furst Pair o’ Briches.
Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button jacket,
Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist,
And my grand bellosed cap,—noan nicer I’ll back it,—
Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste;
Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling,
An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair,
An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden,
It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware.
Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice
Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas,
An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,
Wi’ me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose.
Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy,
Thay both gav me pennys an off aw did steer:
But aw heeard um say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver he ware.”
Aw remember the time are Robin an’ Johnny
Wor keeping ther hens an’ ducks e the yard,
There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny
An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor hard.
But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin’
An sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair,
Aw then became maister at least o’ wun chicken,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.
Aw remember wun Sabbath, an t’ sun it wor shining,
Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth, to sing
An t’ stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining;
And childer e white made t’ village ta ring.
We went ta auld Mecheck’s that day to wor drinking,
Tho’ poor, ther wor plenty, an’ summat ta spare;
Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m thinking,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha ware.”
Now them wor the days o’ grim boggards and witches,
When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp,
But nah is the days o’ cheating fer riches,
And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp.
Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary;
O them wor the days aw knew no despair;
O give me the time o’ the boggard and fairy,
Wi’t furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.
And them wor the days aw sal allus remember,
Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last;
Them wor mi March days, but nah its September:
Ne’er to return again—them days are past.
But a time aw remember aboon onny other,
Aw kneeled o’ mi knees an sed the Lord’s Prayer;
Aw sed God bless me father, an God bless mi mother,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.
Fra Haworth ta Bradford.
Fra Hawarth tahn the other day,
Bi’t rout o’ Thornton height,
Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf,
Went inta Bradford streight.
Nah Joe i’ Bradford wor afoor,
But sho hed nivver been;
Bud assomivver thay arrived
Safe intat Bowling Green.
Thay gav a lad a parkin pig,
As on the street thay went;
Ta point um aht St. George’s Hall,
An Oastler’s Monument.
Bud t’ little jackanapes being deep,
An thought thay’d nivver knaw,
Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ iz wife
T’ furst monument he saw.
Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails,
Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead;
Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel
A goan an robb’d the deead.
Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn,
Away fra poor oud Dick,
Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin,
We a dahn gooid hazel stick.
T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath,
He sooin tuke to hiz heels,
Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument,
He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s.