(A Rifleman's Adventure.)
Th' mooin shone breet wi silver leet,
An' th' wind wor softly sighin,
Th' burds did sleep, an' th' snails did creep,
An' th' buzzards wor a flying;
Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on,
An' th buttercups wor weary,
When Jenny went to meet her John,
Her Rifleman, her dearie.
Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad
As iver held a rifle,
An' if ther wor owt in him bad,
'Twor nobbut just a trifle
He wore a suit o' sooity grey,
To show 'at he wor willin
To feight for th' Queen and country
When perfect in his drillin.
His heead wor raand, his back wor straight,
His legs wor long an' steady,
His fist wor fully two pund weight,
His heart wor true an' ready;
His upper lip wor graced at th' top
Wi mustache strong and bristlin,
It railly wor a spicy crop;
Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.
His buzzum burned wi' thowt's o' war,
He long'd for battles clatter.
He grieved to think noa foeman dar
To cross a sup o' watter;
He owned one spot,—an' nobbut one,
Within his heart wor tender,
An' as his darlin had it fun,
He'd be her bold defender.
At neet he donn'd his uniform,
War trials to endure,
An' helped his comrades brave, to storm
A heap ov horse manure!
They said it wor a citidel,
Fill'd wi' some hostile power,
They boldly made a breach, and well
They triumph'd in an hour.
They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid,
(That spoils one's breeches sadly),
But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid,
An' scented 'em as badly;
Ther wor noa slain to hug away,
Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin,
They lived to feight another day,
An' spend ther neets i' rantin.
Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loin
Where all wor dark an' shaded,
Part grass, part stooans, part sludge an' slime
But quickly on he waded;
An' nah an' then he cast his e'e
An luk'd behund his shoulder.
He worn't timid, noa net he!
He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."
But once he jumped, an' said "Oh dear!"
Becoss a beetle past him,
But still he wor unknown to fear,
He'd tell yo if yo asked him;
He couldn't help for whispering once,
This loin's a varry long un,
A chap wod have but little chonce
Wi thieves, if here amang em.
An' all at once he heeard a voice
Cry out, "Stand and deliver!
Your money or your life, mak choice,
Before your brains I shiver;"
He luk'd all raand, but failed to see
A sign of livin craytur,
Then tremlin dropt upon his knee,
Fear stamp'd on ivery faytur.
"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak,
Mi belts, mi ammunition,
Aw've nowt but th' clooas at's o' mi back
Oh pity mi condition;
Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass,
Aw'd gie thi ivery fardin;
Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass,
At Tate's berry garden."
"Aw wish shoo wor, aw daoant care where,
Its her fault aw've to suffer;"
Just then a whisper in his ear
Said, "Johnny, thar't a duffer,"
He luk'd, an' thear claise to him stuck
Wor Jenny, burst wi' lafter;
"A'a, John," shoo says, "Aw've tried thi pluck,
Aw'st think o' this at after."
"An when tha tells what thinga tha'll do,
An' booasts o' manly courage,
Aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do,
Go hooam an' get thi porrige."
"Why Jenny wor it thee," he said
"Aw fancied aw could spy thi,
Aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid,
Aw did it but to trie thi."
"Just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis
Aw hear thi heart a beatin,
An' tak this claat to wipe thi phiz
Gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin;
Thar't brave noa daat, an' tha can crow
Like booastin cock-a-doodle,
But nooan sich men for me, aw vow,
When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'
Lost Love.
Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass
Her een as black as sloas,
Her hair a flying' thunner claad,
Her cheeks a blowing rooas;
Her smile coom like a sunny gleam
Her cherry lips to curl;
Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream
At flowed through banks o' pearl.
Aw long'd to claim her for mi own,
But nah mi love is crost;
An aw mun wander on alooan,
An' mourn for her aw've lost.
Aw couldn't ax her to be mine,
Wi' poverty at th' door:
Aw niver thowt breet een could shine
Wi' love for one so poor;
But nah ther's summat i' mi breast,
Tells me aw miss'd mi way:
An' lost that lass I loved th' best
Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.
Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.,
Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn,
An' oft i'th' dark o'th' neet;
Aw've knelt mi daan i'th loin to find
Prints ov her tiny feet:
An' under th' window, like a thief,
Aw've crept to hear her spaik,
An' then aw've hurried home agean
For fear mi heart ud braik.
Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.,
Another bolder nor misen,
Has robb'd me o' mi dear,
An' nah aw ne'er may share her joy
An' ne'er may dry her tear;
But though aw'm heartsick, lone, an' sad,
An' though hope's star is set,
To know she's lov'd as aw'd ha' lov'd
Wod mak me happy yet.
Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.,
Th' Traitle Sop.
Once in a little country taan
A grocer kept a shop,
And sell'd amang his other things,
Prime traitle drink and pop,
Teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice,
Soft soap an' paader blue,
Presarves an' pickles, cinnamon,
Allspice an' pepper too;
An' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff
To sell to sich as came,
As figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice,
Too numerous to name.
One summer's day a waggon stood
Just opposite his door,
An' th' childer all gaped raand as if
They'd ne'er seen one afoor;
An' in it wor a traitle cask,
It wor a wopper too,
To get it aat they all wor fast
Which iver way to do;
But wol they stood an parley'd thear,
Th' horse gave a sudden chuck,
An' aat it flew, an' bursting threw
All th' traitle into th' muck.
Then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands,
To them it seem'd rare fun,
But th' grocer ommost lost his wits
When he saw th' traitle run;
He stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared
He wodn't pay a meg,
An'th' carter vow'd until he did
He wodn't stir a peg.
He said he'd done his business reight,
He'd brought it up to th' door,
An thear it wor, an' noa fair chap
Wad want him to do moor.
But wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore,
An' vented aat ther spleen,
Th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure,
All plaisterd up to th' een,
A neighbor chap saw th' state o' things,
An' pitied ther distress,
An' begg'd em not to be soa sour
Abaat soa sweet a mess;
"An' tha'd be sour," th'owd grocer said,
If th' job wor thine, owd lad,
An' somdy wanted thee to pay
For what tha'd niver had.
"Th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver
"My duty's done I hope?
I've brought him traitle, thear it is,
An' he mun sam it up."
Soa th' neighbor left em to thersen,
He'd nowt noa moor to say,
But went to guard what ther wor left,
And send th' young brood away:
This didn't suit th' young lads a bit,
They didn't mean to stop,
They felt detarmin'd 'at they'd get
Another traitle sop.
They tried all ways, but th' chap stood firm,
They couldn't get a lick,
An' some o' th' boldest gate a taste
O'th neighbor's walkin sticks
At last one said, I know a plan
If we can scheam to do it,
We'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt,
An' let him roll reight throo it;
Agreed, agreed! they all replied,
An here comes little Jack,
He's foorced to pass cloise up this side,
We'll do it in a crack.
Poor Jack war rather short, an' coom
Just like a suckin duck,
He little dream'd at th' sweets o' life
Wod iver be his luck;
But daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd
Heead first bang into th' mess,
An' aat he coom a woeful sight,
As yo may easy guess.
They marched him off i' famous glee
All stickified an' clammy,
Then licked him clean an' sent him hooam
To get lick'd by his mammy.
Then th' cartdriver an th' grocer coom
Boath in a dreadful flutter,
To save some, but they coom too lat,
It all wor lost ith gutter:
It towt a lesson to 'em boath
Before that job wor ended,
To try (at stead o' falling aat)
If ought went wrang to mend it.
For wol fowk rave abaat ther loss,
Some sharper's sure to pop,
An' aat o' ther misfortunes
They'll contrive to get a sop.—
To Let.
Aw live in a snug little cot,
An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aat o' debt,
Cloise by, in a big garden plot,
Stands a mansion, 'at long wor to let.
Twelve month sin' or somewhear abaat,
A fine lukin' chap donned i' black,
Coom an' luk'd at it inside an' aat
An' decided this mansion to tak.
Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove
An' masons, an' joiners, an' sweeps,
An' a blacksmith to fit up a cove,
An' bricks, stooans an' mortar i' heaps.
Ther wor painters, an' glazzeners too,
To mend up each bit ov a braik,
An' a lot 'at had nowt else to do,
But to help some o'th 'tothers to laik.
Ther wor fires i' ivery range,
They niver let th' harston get cooiled,
Throo th' celler to th' thack they'd a change,
An' iverything all in a mooild.
Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall,
Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell,
But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all;
He tells me to do it mysel.
This hall lets for fifty a year,
Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay;
When th' day come mi rent's allus thear,
An' that's a gooid thing in its way,
At th' last all th' repairers had done,
An' th' hall wor as cleean as a pin,
Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan,
For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.
Then th' furniture started to come,
Waggon looads on it, all spankin new,
Rich crimson an' gold covered some,
Wol some shone i' scarlet an' blue.
Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor,
An' picturs enuff for a show?
They fill'd ivery corner awm sure,
Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.
One day when a cab drove to th' gate,
Th' new tenant stept aat, an' his wife,
An' tawk abaat fashion an state!
Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.
Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in,
An' aw could'nt help sayin', "bi'th mass;"
As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in,
"A'a its grand to ha' plenty o' brass."
Ther wor butchers, an' bakers, an' snobs,
An' grocers, an' milkmen, an' snips,
All seekin' for orders an' jobs,
An' sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.
Aw sed to th' milk-chap tother day,
"Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike?
Each wick aw'm expected to pay,"
"Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."
Things went on like this, day bi day,
For somewhear cloise on for a year,
Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin' that way;
Altho' aw wor livin soa near.
But one neet when awd finished mi wark,
An' wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire,
A chap rushes in aat 'o'th' dark
Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.
Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?"
Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?"
"Them 'at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan,
"They've bolted an' diddled us cleean."
Aw tell'd him 'aw'd ne'er heeard a word,
He cursed as he put on his hat,
An' he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd,
An' paid nubdy owt, an' that's what."
He left, an' aw crept off to bed,
Next day awd a visit throo Ike,
But aw shut up his maath when aw sed,
"Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."
Ther's papers ith' winders, "to let,"
An' aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be;
They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet,
Tho they neer' do a hawpoth for me.
But aw let 'em do just as they pleease,
Awm content tho' mi station is low,
An' awm thankful sich hard times as thease
If aw manage to pay what aw owe.
This precept, friends, niver forget,
For a wiser one has not been sed,
Be detamined to rise aat o' debt
Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed,—'
Fault Finders.
If ther's ony sooart o' fowk aw hate, it's them at's allus lukkin' aght for faults;—hang it up! they get soa used to it, wol they willn't see ony beauties if they are thear. They remind me ov a chap 'at aw knew at wed a woman 'at had a wart at th' end ov her nooas, but it war nobbut a little en, an' shoo wor a varry bonny lass for all that; but when they'd been wed a bit, an' th' newness had getten warn off, he began to fancy at this wart grew bigger ivery day, an' he stared at it, an' studied abaght it, wol when he luk'd at his wife he could see nowt else, an' he kept dinging her up wi' it wol shoo felt varry mich troubled. But one day, as they wor gettin' ther dinner, he said, "Nay, lass, aw niver did see sich a thing as that wart o' thy nooas is growing into; if it gooas on tha'll be like a rhynockoroo or a newnicorn or summat!"
"Well," shoo says, "when tha wed me tha wed th' wart an' all, an' if tha doesn't like it tha con lump it."
"Aw've noa need to lump it," he says, "for it's lumpin' itsen or aw'll gie nowt for it."
Soa they went on, throo little to moor, till they'd a regular fratch, an' as sooin as' he'd getten his dinner, he off to his wark, an' shoo to her mother's. When Jim coom back an' fan th' fire aght, an' noa wife, he felt rayther strange, but he wor detarmined to let her see 'at he could do baat her, soa he gate a bit o' summat to ait an' went to bed. This went on for two-o'-three days, an' he wor as miserable as iver he could be, but o'th' Setterdy he happened to meet her i'th' shambles, an' they booath stopped an' grinned, for they'd nowt agean one another i'th' bothem.
"Nah, lass," he said, "aw think it's abaat time for thee to come hooam."
"Nay, aw'll come nooan," shoo says, "till aw've getten shut o' this wart."
"Oh, ne'er heed that, lass; it doesn't luk hauf as big as it did, an' if tha wor all wart, aw'd rayther have thi nor be as aw am."
"Soa shoo went back wi' him, an' throo that time to this he's allus luk'd for her beauties asteead ov her faults, an they get on swimmingly. One day shoo axed him if he thowt th' wart wor ony bigger?" "A'a lass," he sed, "thi een are soa breet, aw didn't know tha had one!"
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What aw want yo to do is to be charitable, an' if yo find ony faults, think—yo happen may have one or two yorsen. Ther's net monny on us 'at's killed wi sense, but he hasn't th' leeast at's enuff to know he's a fooil.
This world wad be a better spot,
Wi' joys moor thickly strown,
If fowk cared less for others' faults
An tried to mend ther own.
There's plenty o' room for us all to mend, an' them 'at set abaat it sooinest are likely to be perfect furst; at ony rate, if we try it'll show willin'.