Yorkshire Lyrics / Poems written in the Dialect as Spoken in the West Riding of Yorkshire. To which are added a Selection of Fugitive Verses not in the Dialect

by John Hartley

Produced by Alison Bush

Yorkshire Lyrics.

Poems written in the dialect as spoken in the West Riding of Yorkshire.
To which are added a selection of Fugitive Verses not in the dialect.
By John Hartley,

Author of "Clock Almanack," "Yorkshire Puddin,"
"Yorkshire Tales" &c, &c,

"It has not been my lot to pore
O'er ancient tomes of Classic lore,
Or quaff Castalia's springs;
Yet sometimes the observant eye
May germs of poetry descry
In plain and common things."

London: W. Nicholson & Sons, Limited, 26, Paternoster Square, E. C.
and Albion Works, Wakefield.

Dedication.
To my dear daughter, Annie Sophie,
this collection of dialect verses is dedicated,
as a token of sincere love.
John Hartley. Christmas, 1898.

Contents.

Mi Darling Muse.
To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th.
Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.
Give it 'em Hot.
A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.
Words ov Kindness.
A Brussen Bubble.
Th' Little Stranger.
Th' Traitle Sop.
Once agean Welcome.
Still true to Nell.
Bide thi Time.
A Cold Dooas.
A Jolly Beggar.
Aw Wodn't for all aw Could See.
Come thi Ways!
What is it?
Awst Nivver be Jaylus.
Lamentin' an Repentin'.
Bite Bigger.
Second Thowts.
A Neet when aw've Nowt to do.
Ther's much Expected.
Coortin Days.
Sweet Mistress Moore.
Waivin Mewsic.
Jimmy's Choice.
Old Moorcock.
Th' Short-Timer.
Sol an' Doll.
Their Fred.
Love an' Labor.
Nooan so Bad.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
Peevish Poll.
The Old Bachelor's Story.
Did yo Ivver!
A Quiet Tawk.
Lines, on Startling a Rabbit.
Nivver Heed.
Gronfayther's Days.
Awr Dooad.
Whear Natur Missed it.
That's All.
Mary Hanner's Peanner.
Grondad's Lullaby.
Sixty, Turned, To-day.
That Lad Next Door.
A Summer Shaar.
Awr Lad.
Bonny Mary Ann.
That Christmas Puddin.
A Bad Sooart.
Fairly Weel-off.
A Warnin.
To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester.
Lads an Lasses.
A New Year's Gift.
Matty's Reason.
Uncle Ben.
A Hawporth.
Th' Better Part.
Th' Lesser Evil.
Take Heart!
They all do it.
To Let.
Lost Love. (appeared twice in the paper book)
Drink.
Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.)
Plenty o' Brass.
The New Year's Resolve.
A Strange Stooary.
What Wor it?
Billy Bumble's Bargain.
Aght o' Wark.
That's a Fact.
Babby Burds.
Queen ov Skircoit Green.
Th' Little Black Hand.
My Native Twang.
Sing On.
Shoo's thi Sister.
Another Babby.
To a Roadside Flower.
An Old Man's Christmas Morning.
Settin Off.
To th' Swallow.
A Wife.
Heart Brokken.
Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.
Rejected.
Persevere.
A Pointer.
An Acrostic.
Help Thisen.
Bless 'em!
Act Square.
His Dowter Gate Wed.
All We Had.
Th' First o'th Sooart.
Poor Old Hat.
Done Agean.
What it is to be a Mother.
What they say.
Young Jockey.
Missed his Mark.
When Lost.
Mak a Gooid Start.
Stop at Hooam.
Advice to Jenny.
Jockey an Dolly.
Dooant Forget the Old Fowks.
Soa Bonny.
The Linnet.
Mary Jane.
Aw Dooant Care.
My Lass.
A Gooid Kursmiss Day.
Mi Love's Come Back.
A Wife.
All Tawk.
Aw Can't Tell.
Happen Thine.
Contrasts.
To Mally.
Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.
Try a Smile.
Growin Old.
Gooid Bye, Old Lad.
That Drabbled Brat.
Song for th' Hard Times, (1879.)
Stir thi Lass!
Tother Day.
Happy Sam's Song.
Gradely Weel off.
Is it Reight?
A Yorksher Bite.
Lily's Gooan.
What aw Want.
Latter Wit.
A Millionaire.
Mi Fayther's Pipe.
Let th' Lasses Alooan!
A Breet Prospect.
Missin Yor Way.
Heather Bells.
A Lucky Dog.
My Doctrine.
That Lass.
Mi Old Umberel
What it Comes to.
Hold up yer Heeads.
A Quiet Day.
Lass o'th Haley Hill.
Ditherum Dump.
My Polly.
Love one Another.
Dick an Me.
Briggate at Setterdy Neet.
Awr Annie.
Peter Prime's Principles.
Cuckoo!
Fowk Next Door.
Dad's Lad.
Willie's Weddin.
Somdy's Chonce.
To a True Friend.
Warmin Pan.
It may be Soa.
A Safe Investment.
Red Stockin.
Plain Jane.
Cash V. Cupid.
Mary's Bonnet.
Prime October.
Old Dave to th' New Parson.
Tom Grit.
Th' Demon o' Debt.
Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.
Matilda Jane.
Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.
Work Lads!
Bonny Yorksher.
Sixty an Sixteen.
Come thi Ways in.
Horton Tide.
Mi Old Slippers.
A Friend to Me.
A Pair o' Black Een.
A Screw Lawse.
A Sad Mishap.
If.
A True Tale.
Peter's Prayer.
Mak th' Best Ont.
On Strike.
Be Happy.
Its True.
Natty Nancy.
Fugitive poems.
Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.
Trusting Still.
Shiver the Goblet.
Little Sunshine.
Passing Events.
Those Days have Gone.
I'd a Dream.
To my Harp.
Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection.
Alice.
Looking Back.
I Know I Love Thee
Bachelors Quest.
Waiting at the Gate.
Love.
Do your Best and Leave the Rest.
To my Daughter on her Birthday.
Remorse.
My Queen
Now and Then.
The Open Gates.
Blue Bells.
A Song of the Snow
Hide not thy Face.
In my Garden of Roses.
The Match Girl.
De Profundis.
Nettie.
The Dean's Brother.
I Would not Live Alway.
Too Late.
On the Banks of the Calder.
Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.
November's Here.
Mary.
When Cora Died.
The Violet.
Repentant.
Sunset.
Poetry and Prose.
Years Ago.
Somebody's.
Claude.
All on a Christmas Morning.
Once Upon a Time.
Nearing Home.
Those Tiny Fingers.
Lilly-White Hand.
Shut Out.
Charming May.
Who Cares?

Mi Darling Muse.

Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her,
To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better;
An' if aw find aw connot get her
To lend her aid,
Into foorced measure then aw set her,
The stupid jade!

An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly,
Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly,
Place all the blame,—yo'll place it reightly,
Upon her back;
To win her smile aw follow neetly,
Along her track.

Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly,
An let me taste o' melancholy;
But just to spite her awl be jolly,
An say mi say;
Awl fire away another volley
Tho' shoo says "Nay."

We've had some happy times together,
For monny years we've stretched our tether,
An as aw dunnot care a feather
For fowk 'at grummel,
We'll have another try. Aye! whether
We stand or tummel.

Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble,
Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble,
But th' harvest someday may be double,
At least we'll trust it;
An them 'at say it's but a bubble,
We'll leeav to brust it.

To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th.

A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin,
Little daisy!
Pray, whativer wor ta doin?
Are ta crazy?
Winter winds are blowin' yet,—
Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.

Did a gleam o' sunshine warm thee,
An' deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee,
For believe me,
Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares,
Laid to catch thee unawares.

Still aw think it luks a shame,
To tawk sich stuff;
Aw've lost faith, an' tha'll do th' same,
Hi, sooin enuff.
If tha'rt happy as tha art
Trustin' must be th' wisest part.

Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan,
Raand thi dwellin';
They may screen thee when aw've gooanm,
Ther's no tellin';
An' when gentle spring draws near
Aw'll release thee, niver fear.

An' if then thi pretty face,
Greets me smilin';
Aw may come an' sit bith' place,
Time beguilin';
Glad to think aw'd paar to be,
Of some use, if but to thee.

Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.

Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South,
An led a rooamin' life;
Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth,
Aw've shared wi joy an strife;
Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip,
Whativver's come to pass:
But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship,
Has been mi Yorksher Lass.

Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost,
A toy for wind an wave;
Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost,
Aw've thowt noa power could save;
But ivver in the darkest day,
Wi muscles strong as brass,
To some safe port shoo's led the way,—
Mi honest Yorksher Lass.

Shoo's fair,—all Yorksher lasses are,—
Shoo's bonny as the rest,
Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care,
Shoo thinks what is, is best.
Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck,
An it seems as clear as glass,
'At th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck
'At weds a Yorksher Lass.

Ther's oriental beauties, an'
Grand fowk ov ivvery grade,
But when it comes to honest worth,
Shoo puts 'em all ith' shade,
For wi her charms an virtues,
Shoo stands at top o'th' class;
Ther's nooan soa rare as can compare,
Wi a bonny Yorksher Lass,

Then here's to th' Yorksher lasses!
Whearivver they may be;
Ther worth ther's nooan surpasses,
An ther's nooan as brave an free!
If awd to live life o'er ageean,
Awd think misen an ass,
If aw didn't tak for company,
A bonny Yorksher lass.

Give it 'em Hot.

Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!
Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?
Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant
Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?

O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
An honest man still should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin,
An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.

Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested,
An' what they're entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin,
All yo 'at profess others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin,
If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.

A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.

Little childer,—little childer;
Harken to an old man's ditty;
Tho yo live ith' country village,—
Tho yo live ith' busy city.
Aw've a little tale to tell yo,—
One 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,—
It's abaat One who to save yo,
Here amang men made His dwellin.
Riches moor nor yo can fancy,—
Moor nor all this world has in it,—
He gave up becoss He loved yo,
An He's lovin yo this minnit.
All His power, pomp and glory,
Which to think on must bewilder,—
All He left,—an what for think yo?
Just for love ov little childer.
In a common, lowly stable
He wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin,
As if angel's 'een wor peepin
On His face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin.
An one star, like a big lantern,
Shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin,
Saw, an foller'd till it rested
Just aboon whear He wor sleepin.
Then strange music an sweet voices
Seem'd to sing reight aght o' Heaven,
"Unto us a child is born!
Unto us a son is given!"
Then coom wise men thro strange nations,—
Young men an men old an hoary,—
An they all knelt daan befoor Him,
An araand Him shone a glory.
Then a King thowt he wod kill Him,
Tho he reckoned net to mind Him,
But they went to a strange country,
Whear this bad King couldn't find Him.
An He grew up strong and sturdy,
An He sooin began His praichin,
An big craads stood raand to listen,
An they wondered at His taichin.
Then some sed bad things abaat Him,
Called Him names, laft at an jeered Him;—
Sed He wor a base imposter,
For they hated, yet they feeard Him.
Some believed in His glad tidins,—
Saw Him cure men ov ther blindness,—
Saw Him make once-deead fowk livin,
Saw Him full o' love an kindness.
Wicked men at last waylaid Him,
Drag'd Him off to jail and tried Him,
Tho noa fault they could find in Him,
Yet they cursed an crucified Him.
Nubdy knows ha mich He suffered;
But His work on earth wor ended:—
From the grave whear they had laid Him,
Into Heaven He ascended.
Love like His may well bewilder,—
Sinners weel may bow befoor Him;—
Nah He waits for th' little childer,
Up in Heaven whear saints adore Him.
Think when sittin raand yor hearthstun,
An the Kursmiss bells are ringing,
Ha He lived an died at yo may
Join those angels in ther singin.

Words ov Kindness.

'Tis strange 'at fowk will be sich fooils
To mak life net worth livin',
Fermentin' rows, creatin' mooils,
Detractin' an' deceivin'.
To fratch an' worry day an' neet,
Is sewerly wilful blindness,
When weel we know ther's nowt as sweet,
As a few words spoke i' kindness.

Ther is noa heart withaat its grief,
The gayest have some sadness;
But oft a kind word brings relief,
An' sheds a ray ov gladness.
We ought to think of others moor,
Nor ov ther pains be mindless;
We may bring joy to monny a door
Wi' a few words spoke i' kindness.

A peevish spaik, a bitin' jest,
'At may be thowtless spokken,
May be like keen edged dagger prest
Throo some heart nearly brokken.
Then let love be awr rule o' life,
This world's cares we shall find less;
For nowt can put an end to strife,
Like a few words spoke i' kindness.

A Brussen Bubble.

Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
Shoo lived near Woodus Moor;—
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love—and as luck let,
It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
Or one wi better wit.

His name awm net inclined to tell,
But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
Sed Bet, "let's get agate."

"This morn wol darnin socks for thee
This thowt coom i' mi nop,
An do't we will if tha'll agree;—
Let's start a little shop.
We'll sell all sooarts o' useful things
'At ivverybody needs;
Like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins,
An buttons, sooap, an threeds.

An spice for th' childer,—castor oil,
An traitle drink, an pies,
An kinlin wood, an maybe coil,
Fresh yeast an hooks an eyes.
Corn plaisters, Bristol brick, an clay,
Puttates, rewbub an salt;
An if that can't be made to pay,
It willn't be my fault."

"Th' idea's a gooid en," John replied,
"We should ha done 't befoor;
Aw raillee think at if its tried,
We'st neer luk back noa moor.
But whear's th' stock commin throo, mi lass?
That's moor nor aw can tell;
Fowk willn't come an spend ther brass,
Unless yo've stuff to sell."

"Why, wodn't th' maister lend a hand?
Tha knows he's fond o' me;
A five paand nooat wod do it grand—
Awd ax if aw wor thee."
An John did ax, an strange to say
He gat it thear an then;
An Bet wor ne'er i' sich a way—
Fairly besides hersen.

Soa th' haase wor turned into a shop,
An praad they wor,—an Bet
Sed to hersen—"It luks tip top,
Aw'st be a lady yet."
An th' naybors coom throo far an near,
To buy a thing or two,
What they'd paid tuppence for,—why, here
Bet made three awpence do.

When John coom home at neet, his wife
Wor soa uncommon thrang,
At th' furst time in his wedded life,
His drinkin time coom wrang.
He did his best to seem content,
Till shuttin up time coom;
"Why, lass, he said, "thar't fairly spent,
Tha's oppen'd wi a boom."

An ivvery day, to th' end o'th' wick
Browt customers enuff;
But th' stock wor lukkin varry sick,
For shoo'd sell'd all her stuff.
But then, shoo'd bowt a new silk gaon,
An John a silk top hat,
An th' nicest easy chair ith' taan,
An bits o' this an that.

An th' upshot wor, shoo'd spent all th' brass,
An shoo'd nowt left to sell;
An what John sed,—aw'll let that pass
For 'tisn't fit to tell.
Soa th' business brust, but Bet declares,
'Twor nobbut want o' thowt,
For shoo'd sooin ha made a fortun,
If th' stock had cost 'em nowt.

Th' Little Stranger.

Little bonny, bonny babby!
How tha stares, an' weel tha may,
For its but an haar or hardly
Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day.

A'a tha little knows, young moppet,
Ha awst have to tew for thee;
But may be when forced to drop it,
'At tha'll do a bit for me.

Are ta maddled mun amang it?
Does ta wonder what aw mean?
Aw should think tha does, but dang it,
Where's ta been to leearn to scream?

That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thi,
Dunnot peawt thi lip like that;
Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thi,
Feared awst hurt thi, little brat.

Come, aw'll tak thi to thi mother,
Shoo's more used to sich nor me,
Hands like mine worn't made to bother
Wi sich ginger-breead as thee.

Innocent an' helpless craytur,
All soa pure an' undefiled,
If ther's ought belangs to heaven,
Lives o'th' earth, it is a child.

An' its hard to think 'at someday,
If tha'rt spared to weather throo,
'At tha'll be a man, an' someway
Have to feight life's battles too.

Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies,
Once wor nowt noa moor to see,
An' th' warst wretch at hung o'th' gallows,
Once wor born as pure as thee.

An' what tha at last may come to,
God aboon us all can tell;
But aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky,
Even tho aw fail mysel.

Do aw ooin thi? its a pity,
Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat;
Goa an' snoozle to thi titty,
Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.

Th' Traitle Sop.

Once in a little country taan
A grocer kept a shop,
And sell'd amang his other things,
Prime traitle-drink and pop;

Teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice,
Soft soap an' paader blue,
Presarves an' pickles, cinnamon,
Allspice an' pepper too.

An' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff
To sell to sich as came,
As figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice,
Too numerous to name.

One summer's day a waggon stood
Just opposite his door;
An' th' childer all gaped raand as if
They'd ne'er seen one afoor.

An' in it wor a traitle cask,
It wor a wopper too,
To get it aght they all wor fast
Which iver way to do.

But wol they stood an' parley'd thear,
Th' horse gave a sudden chuck,
An' aght it flew, an' bursting threw
All th' traitle into th' muck.

Then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands,
To them it seem'd rare fun;
But th' grocer ommost lost his wits
When he saw th' traitle run.

He stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared
He wodn't pay a meg!
An' th' carter vow'd until he did
He wodn't stir a peg.

He said he'd done his business reight,—
He'd brought it up to th' door,
An' thear it wor, an' noa fair chap
Wod want him to do moor.

But wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore,
An' vented aght ther spleen,
Th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure,
All plaisterd up to th' een.

A neighbor chap saw th' state o' things,
An' pitied ther distress,
An' begg'd em not to be soa sour
Abaht soa sweet a mess;

"An' tha'd be sour," th' owd grocer sed,
"If th' job wor thine owd lad,
An' somdy wanted thee to pay
For what tha'd niver had."

"Th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver,
"My duty's done I hope?
I've brought him traitle, thear it is,
An' he mun sam it up."

Soa th' neighbor left em to thersen,
He'd nowt noa moor to say,
But went to guard what ther wor left,
An' send th' young brood away.

This didn't suit th' young lads a bit,—
They didn't mean to stop,
They felt detarmin'd that they'd get
Another traitle sop.

They tried all ways but th' chap stood firm,
They couldn't get a lick,
An' some o'th' boldest gate a taste
O'th neighbor's walkin stick.

At last one said, "I know a plan
If we can scheme to do it,
We'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt,
An' let him roll reight throo it;"

"Agreed! agreed!" they all replied,
"An here comes little Jack,
He's foorced to pass cloise up this side,
We'll do it in a crack."

Poor Jack wor rayther short, an' came
Just like a suckin duck;
He little dream'd at th' sweets o' life
Wod ivver be his luck.

But daan they shoved him, an' he roll'd
Heead first bang into th' mess,
An' aght he coom a woeful seet,
As yo may easy guess.

They marched him off i' famous glee,
All stickified an' clammy,
Then licked him clean an' sent him hooam
To get lick'd by his mammy.

Then th' cartdriver an th' grocer came,
Booath in a dreadful flutter,
To save some, but they came too lat,
It all wor lost ith gutter:

It towt a lesson to em booath
Befoor that job wor ended,
To try (at stead o' falling aght)
If owt went wrang to mend it.

For wol fowk rave abaht ther loss,
Some sharper's sure to pop,
An' aght o' ther misfortunes
They'll contrive to get a sop.

Once agean Welcome.

Once agean welcome! oh, what is ther grander,
When years have rolled by sin' yo left an old friend?
An what cheers yor heart, when yo far away wander,
As mich as the thowts ov a welcome at th' end?
Yo may goa an be lucky, an win lots o' riches;
Yo may gain fresh acquaintance as onward yo rooam;
But tho' wealth may be temptin, an honor bewitches,
Yet they're nowt when compared to a welcome back hooam.

Pray, who hasn't felt as they've sat sad an lonely,
They'd give all they possessed for the wings ov a dove,
To fly far away, just to catch a seet only
Ov th' friends o' ther childhood, the friends 'at they love.
Hope may fill the breast when some old spot we're leavin,
Bright prospects may lure us throo th' dear land away,
But it's joy o' returnin at sets one's breast heavin,
It's th' hopes ov a welcome back maks us feel gay.

Long miles yo may trudge ovver moor, heath, or mire,
Till yor legs seem to totter, an th' stummack feels faint;
But yor thowts still will dwell o' that breet cottage fire,
Till yo feel quite refreshed bi th' fancies yo paint.
An when yo draw nearer, an ovver th' old palins
Yo see smilin faces 'at welcome yo back,
Ther's an end to being weary! away wi complainin's!
Yo leeave all yor troubles behind on yor track.

Then if ther's sich joy in a welcome receivin,
Let us ivvery one try sich a pleasure to gain;
An bi soothin' fowk's cares, an ther sorrows relievin,
Let us bind em all to us, wi' friendship's strong chain.
Let us love an be loved! let's be kind an forgivin,
An then if fate forces us far from awr hooam,
We shall still throughout life have the joy o' receivin
A tear when we part, an a smile when we come.

Still true to Nell.

Th' sun wor settin,—red an gold,
Wi splendor paintin th' west,
An purplin tints throo th' valley roll'd,
As daan he sank to rest.
Yet dayleet lingered looath to leeav
A world soa sweet an fair,
Wol silent burds a pathway cleave,
Throo th' still an slumb'rin air.

Aw stroll'd along a country rooad,
Hedged in wi thorn an vine;
Which wild flower scents an shadows broad,
Converted to a shrine.
As twileet's deeper curtains fell
Aw sat mi daan an sighed;
Mi thowts went back to th' time when Nell,
Had rambled bi mi side.

Aw seemed to hear her voice agean,
Soft whisperin i' mi ear,
Recallin things 'at once had been,
When th' futur all wor clear.
When love,—pure, honest, youthful love
Had left us nowt to crave;
An fancies full ov bliss we wove;—
Alas! Nell's in her grave.

Oh, Nell! I' that fair hooam ov thine,
Whear all is breet an pure,—-
Say,—is ther room for love like mine?
Can earthborn love endure?
Do angels' hearts past vows renew,
To mortals here who dwell?
It must be soa;—if my heart's true,
Aw cannot daat thee, Nell.

It's weel we cannot see beyond
That curtain Deeath lets fall;
Lest cheerin hooaps, an longins fond,
Should be denied us all.
Better to live i' hooap nor fear,—
'Tis Mercy plan'd it soa;
For if my Nelly isn't thear,
Aw shouldn't care to goa.

Bide thi Time.

Bide thi time! it's sure to come,
Tho' it may seem tardy,—
Thine's a better fate nor some:
If tha's but a humble home,
Yet thart strong an hardy;
Then cheer up an ne'er repine,
Be content, an bide thi time.

Bide thi time! if fortun's blind,
Rail not at her givin;
If tha thinks shoo's ovver kind
To thi neighbor, nivver mind,
If tha gets a livin;
Woll thi life is in its prime,
Be content, an bide thi time.

Bide thi time! for ther's a endin
To a loin, haivver long:
Things at th' warst mun start o' mendin;
Ther's noa wind but what's befriendin
One or other, tho' its strong:
Remember, poverty's noa crime—
Be content, an bide thi time.

Bide thi time! tho none are near thee
To stretch out a helpin hand;
Let noa darken'd prospect fear thee,
Ther's a promise yet should cheer thee
As tha nears a breeter land:
Tho thi rooad is hard to climb,
Be content, an bide thi time.

Bide thi time! "I will not leave thee
Nor forsake thee," He hath said.
Let not worldly smiles deceive thee,
Trust in Him—He will relieve thee—
He that gives thy daily bread:
Fill'd with faith and love sublime,
Still contented, bide thi time.

A Cold Dooas.

One neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell,
But it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel.
Furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes,
Aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes.
Thinks aw—tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will!
But aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still;
Soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed,
Thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed.
When awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas,
Aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors;
Soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath,
An ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath.
When aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang,
For it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang;
It wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hurt,
But still, aw wor lockt aght o' door i' mi shirt.
Thinks aw its noa use to be feared ov a din,
Awst be foorced to rouse Betty to let me get in.
An to mend matters snow wor beginnin to fall,
An a linen shirt makes but a poor overall.
Aw knockt at first pratly, for fear ov a row,
But her snooarin aw heeard plain enuff daan below.
Mi flesh wor i' gooise-lumps, mi feet wor like ice,
To be frozzen to deeath, thinks aw, willn't be nice;
Soa as knockin wor useless aw started to bray,
Till at last one oth pannels began to give way.
All th' neighbors ther heeads aght oth windows did pop,
But aw couldn't wake Betty, shoo slept like a top.
At last a poleeceman coom raand wi his lamp,
An he spied mi an thowt mi some murderin scamp;
Aw tried to explain, but he wodn't give heed,
For he wanted a job like all th' rest ov his breed.
He tuk me to th' lock-up, an thear made a charge,
At aw wor a lunatic rooamin at large.
In a cell aw wor put, whear aw fan other three,
'Twor a small cell for four, but a big sell for me;
An shiv'rin an shudd'rin an pairt druffen sick,
That neet seem'd to me twice as long as a wick.
Next mornin they dragg'd me to th' cooart-haase to tell
What it meant, an to give an accaant o' misel;
An they fined me five shillin, but ha could aw pay,
When mi brass wor ith pockets oth clooas far away?
Then they sent Betty word, an shoo coom, for it seems
Shoo wor up i' gooid time, for shoo'd had ugly dreeams;
An shoo browt me mi clooas, an shoo set me all streight,
But her pity wor nobbut, "It just sarves thee reight."
Sin then yo've noa nooation what awve to endure,
For aw gate sich a cold 'at noa phisic can cure;
An if aw complain Betty says i' quicksticks,
"Tha sees what tha gets wi thi wrang-headed tricks."
Soa aw grin an aw bide it as weel as aw can,
But awve altered mi tactics, an nah it's mi plan
If mi mates ivver tempt me an get me to rooam,
Aw sup pop when awm aght an sup whisky at hooam.
An Betty declares it's been all for mi gooid,
For awd long wanted summat to cooil mi young blooid;
But this lesson it towt me awl freely confess,—
To mak sewer th' gate's made fast befoor aw undress.

A Jolly Beggar.

Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw havn't a meg,
But awm free as a burd, an aw shak a loise leg;
Aw've noa haase, an noa barns, soa aw nivver pay rent,
But still aw feel rich, for awm bless'd wi content,
Aw live, an awm jolly,
An if it is folly,
Let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent.

Mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up oth moor,
An at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor,
An a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop,
Wol aw listen to th' stormcock at pipes up oth top;
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.

Aw nivver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak,
Unless it's thease tatters at hing o' mi back;
An if they prig them, they'll get suck'd do yo see,
They'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.

Fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me ith rooad
An get aght oth gate as if fear'd ov a tooad;
But aw laff i' mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell,
For th' less room they tak up, ther's all th' moor for misel.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.

Tho philosiphers tawk, an church parsons may praich,
An tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich;
Yet aw nivver tak heed o' ther cant o' ther noise,
For he's nowt to be fear'd on at's nowt he can loise.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.

Aw Wodn't for all aw Could See.

Why the dickens do some fowk keep thrustin,
As if th' world hadn't raam for us all?
Wi consarn an consait they're fair brustin,
One ud think th' heavens likely to fall.
They fidge an they fume an they flutter,
Like a burd catched wi lime on a tree,
And they'll fratch wi ther own breead an butter:—
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.

Bless mi life! th' world could get on withaat em!
It ud have to do if they wor deead;
They may be sincere but aw daat em,
If they're honest, they're wrang i' ther heead.
They've all some pet doctrine, an wonder
Why fowk wi ther plans disagree,
They expect yo should all knuckle under,
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.

My old woman may net be perfection,
But we're wed soa we know we've to stick;
An if shoo made another selection,
Aw mightn't be th' chap at shoo'd pick.
But we get on reight gradely together,
An her failins aw try net to see,
Some will bend under th' weight ov a feather,
But aw wodn't for all aw could see.

A chap at aits peaches and cherries,
Mun expect to be bothered wi stooans;
An he's nobbut a fooil if he worries
Coss yearins arnt made withaat booans.
To mak th' best o' things just as aw find em,
Seems th' reight sooart o' wisdom to me;
An when things isn't reight aw neer mind em,
For aw wodn't for all aw could see.

All araand me aw see ther's moor pleasure
Nor aw can enjoy wol aw live;
An contentment is this world's best treasure,
Then why should aw sit daan an grieve?
If they enjoy naggin an growlin,
It maks little difference to me,
But wi th' world full o' pleasure to roll in:—
Why, aw wodn't for all aw could see.

Come thi Ways!

Bonny lassie, come thi ways,
An let us goa together!
Tho' we've met wi stormy days,
Ther'll be some sunny weather.
An if joy should spring for me,
Tha shall freely share it;
An if trouble comes to thee,
Aw can help to bear it.

Tho' thi mammy says us nay,
An thi dad's unwillin';
Wod ta have me pine away
Wi this love at's killin'?
Come thi ways, an let me twine
Mi arms once moor abaght thee;
Weel tha knows mi heart is thine,
Aw couldn't live withaat thee.

Ivvery day an haar at slips,
Some pleasure we are missin',
For those bonny rooasy lips
Awm nivver stall'd o' kissin'.
If men wor wise to walk life's track
Withaat sith joys to glad 'em,
He must ha made a sad mistak
At gave a Eve to Adam.

What is it?

What is it maks a crusty wife
Forget to scold, an leeave off strife?
What is it smoothes th' rooad throo life?
It's sooap.

What is it maks a gaumless muff
Grow rich, an roll i' lots o' stuff,
Woll better men can't get enough?
It's sooap.

What is it, if it worn't theear,
Wod mak some fowks feel varry queer,
An put em i' ther proper sphere?
It's sooap.

What is it maks fowk wade throo th' snow,
To goa to th' church, becoss they know
'At th' squire's at hooam an sure to goa?
It's sooap.

What is it gains fowk invitations,
Throo them at live i' lofty stations?
What is it wins mooast situations?
It's sooap.

What is it men say they detest,
Yet allus like that chap the best
'At gives em twice as mich as th' rest?
It's sooap.

What is it, when the devil sends
His agents raand to work his ends,
What is it gains him lots o' friends?
It's sooap.

What is it we should mooast despise,
An by its help refuse to rise,
Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes?
It's sooap.

What is it, when life's wasting fast,
When all this world's desires are past,
Will prove noa use to us at last?
It's sooap.

Awst Nivver be Jaylus.

"Awst nivver be jaylus, net aw!"
Sed Nancy to th' love ov her heart,
"Aw couldn't, lad, if awd to try,
For aw know varry weel what tha art.
Aw could trust thee to th' world's farthest point,
Noa matter what wimmen wor thear,
They'd nooan put mi nooas aght o'th joint,
Tha'd come back to thi lass tha left here.

Though tha did walk Leweezy to th' church,
An fowk wink'd an dropt monny a hint,
Aw knew tha'd nooan leav me i'th lurch,
For a dowdy like her wi a squint.
An Ellen at lives at th' yard end,
May simper an innocent look,
But aw think shoo'll ha' farther to fend,
Befoor shoo's a fish to her hook.

Nay, jaylussy's aght o' my line,
Or else that young widdy next door,
Wod ha heeard some opinions o' mine,
At wodn't quite suit her awm sewer.
What tha can see in her caps me,
For awm sewer shoo's as faal as old Flue,
An aw think when shoo's tawkin to thee,
Shoo mud find surnmat better to do.

'Shoo's a varry nice lass,' does ta say?
'An luks looansum tha thinks?' oh! that's it!
Tha'd better set off reight away,
An try to console her a bit.
Shoo's a two-faced deceitful young freet!
Aw wish shoo wor teed raand thi neck!
But goa to her an tell her to-neet,
At Nancy has given thi th' seck.

Awm nooan jaylus! aw ammot that fond!
Aw think far too mich o' mysen
To care for sich a poucement as yond,
At hankers for other fowk's men!
Aw tell thi aw'll net hold mi tongue!
Awm nooan jaylus tha madlin! it's thee!*
An aw allus shall trust thee as long
As tha nooatices nubdy but me."

Lamentin' an Repentin'.

Awst be better when spring comes, aw think,
But aw feel varry sickly an waik,
Awve noa relish for mait nor for drink,
An awm ommost too weary to laik.

What's to come on us all aw can't tell,
For we havn't a shillin put by;
Ther's nowt left to pop nor to sell,
An aw cannot get trust if aw try.

My wife has to turn aght to wark,
An th' little uns all do a share;
An they're tewin throo dayleet to dark,
To keep me sittin here i' mi chair.

It doesn't luk long sin that day
When Bessy wor stood bi mi side;
An shoo promised to love an obey,
An me to protect an provide.

Shoo wor th' bonniest lass i' all th' taan,
An fowk sed as they saw us that day,
When we coom aght o' th' church, arm i' arm,
Shoo wor throwin' hersen reight away.

But shoo smiled i' mi face as we went,
An her arm clung moor tightly to mine;
"Aw feel happy," shoo sed, "an content
To know at tha'rt mine an awm thine."

Aw wor praad ov her bonny breet een,—
Aw wor praad ov her little white hand,—
An aw thowt shoo wor fit for a queen,
For ther wornt a grander ith' land.

We gat on varry weel for a bit,
An aw stuck to mi wark like a man,
An enjoying mi hooam, thear awd sit,
As a chap at works hard nobbut can.

We hadn't been wed quite a year,
When they showed me a grand little lad,
An th' old wimmen sed, "Sithee! luk here!
He's th' image exact ov his dad."

But mi mates nivver let me alooan,
Till aw joined i' ther frolics and spree,
An tho' Bessy went short, or had nooan,
Shoo wor kinder nor ivver to me.

Sometimes when shoo's ventur'd to say,
"Come hooam an stop in lad, to-neet."
Awve felt shamed an awve hurried away,
For her een have been glist'nin wi weet.

An awve sed to misen 'at awd mend,
For it's wrang to be gooin on soa;
But at neet back to th' aleus awd wend,
Wi th' furst swillgut at ax'd me to goa.

Two childer wor added to th' stock,
But aw drank, an mi wark went to th' bad;
An awve known em be rooarin for jock,
Wol awve druffen what they should ha had.

Aw seldom went hooam but to sleep,
Tho Bessy ne'er offered to chide;
But grief 'at is silent is deep,
An sorrow's net easy to hide.

If th' childer wod nobbut complain,
Or Bessy get peevish an tart,
Aw could put up wi th' anguish or pain,
But ther kindness is braikin mi heart.

Little Emma, poor child, ov a neet
Does th' neighbours odd jobs nah and then,
An shoo runs hersen off ov her feet,
For a hawpny, they think for hersen.

An shoo saved em until shoo gat three,
But this mornin away shoo went aght,
An spent em o' bacca for me,
'Coss shoo thowt aw luk'd looansum withaat.

It's a lesson awst nivver forget,
An awve bid a gooid-bye to strong drink;
An theyst hev ther reward yo can bet;—
Awst be better when spring comes aw think.

An if spendin what's left o' mi life
For ther sakes can mak up for lost time,
Ther shan't be a happier wife,
Nor three better loved childer nor mine.

Aw can't help mi een runnin o'er,
For mi heart does mi conduct condemn;
But awl promise to do soa noa moor,
If God spares me to Bessy and them.

Bite Bigger.

As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark,
(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,)
Aw happen'd to hear a remark,
At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan.—
It wur raanin, an snawin, an cowd,
An th' flagstoans wur covered wi muck,
An th' east wind booath whistled an howl'd,
It saanded like nowt but ill luck;
When two little lads, donn'd i' rags,
Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet,
Coom trapesin away ower th' flags,
Booath on em sodden'd wi th' weet.—
Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
Th' young en be hauf on't,—noa moor;
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen,
God help fowk this weather at's poor!
Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand,
An aw luk'd just to see what 't could be;
'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand,
An they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee:
An he sed, "Come on, Billy, may be
We shall find summat else by an by,
An if net, tha mun share thease wi me
When we get to some spot where its dry."
Leet-hearted they trotted away,
An aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad;
But aw thowt awd ne'er seen sich a day—
It worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad.
Sooin th' big en agean slipt away,
An sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck,
An he cried aght, "Luk here, Bill! to-day
Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck?
Here's a apple! an th' mooast on it's saand:
What's rotten aw'll throw into th' street—
Worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand?
Nah booath on us con have a treat."
Soa he wiped it, an rubb'd it, an then
Sed, "Billy, thee bite off a bit;
If tha hasn't been lucky thisen
Tha shall share wi me sich as aw get."
Soa th' little en bate off a touch,
T'other's face beemed wi pleasur all throo,
An' he sed, "Nay, tha hasn't taen much,
Bite agean, an bite bigger; nah do!"

Aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,—
Thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me!
Tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor:
Th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee!
Tuppince wur all th' brass aw had,
An awd ment it for ale when coom nooin,
But aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad,
He desarves it for what he's been dooin.
Soa aw sed, "Lad, here's tuppince for thee,
For thi sen,"—an they stared like two geese;
But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e,
"Nay, it'll just be a penny a piece."
"God bless thi! do just as tha will,
An may better days speedily come;
Tho clam'd, an hauf donn'd, mi lad, still
Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nur some."

Second Thowts.

Aw've been walkin up th' loin all ith weet,
Aw felt sure tha'd be comin that way;
For tha promised tha'd meet me to-neet,
An answer me "Aye" or else "Nay."
Tho aw hevn't mich fear tha'll refuse,
Yet awd rayther mi fate tha'd decide,
For this trailin abaat is no use,
Unless tha'll at last be mi bride.

Aw dooant like keepin thus i' suspense,
An aw think tha'rt too full o' consait;
If aw get thee tha'll bring me expense,
To provide thee wi clooas an wi mait.
If tha fancies all th' gain's o' my side
Tha'rt makkin a sorry mistak,
For when a chap tackles a bride,
He's an extra looad on his back.

An in fact, when aw study things o'er,
Awm nooan sorry tha hasn't shown up,
For awm nooan badly off nah awm sure,
For awve plenty to ait an to sup.
Aw've noa wife to find fault if awm lat,
Aw've noa childer to feed nor to clam,
An when aw put this thing to that,
Aw think aw shall stop as aw am.

A Neet when aw've Nowt to do.

Why lad, awm sewer tha'rt ommost done,
This ovvertime is killin;
'Twor allus soa sin th' world begun,
They put o' them at's willin.
Tha's ne'er a neet to call thi own,—
Tha starts furst thing o' Mundy,
An works thi fingers fair to th' booan,
Booath day an neet wol Sundy.
Aw know tha addles extra pay,—
We couldn't weel do baght it,
But if tha'rt browt hooam sick some day,
We'st ha to do withaat it.
Aw seldom get to see thi face,
Exceptin when tha'rt aitin;
Neet after neet aw caar ith' place
Wol awm fair sick o' waitin.
An when tha comes, tha'rt off to bed,
Befoor aw've chonce o' spaikin,
An th' childer luk, aw've ofttimes sed,
Like orphans when they're laikin.
Come hooam at six o'clock to-morn,
An let wark goa to hummer,
Thi face is growin white an worn:—
Tha'll nivver last all summer.
Besides ther's lots o' little jobs,
At tha can tak a hand in,—
That kist o' drawers has lost two nobs,
An th' table leg wants mendin.
Ther's th' fixin up oth' winderblind,
An th' chaymer wants whiteweshin,
Th' wall's filled wi marks o' ivvery kind,—
(Yond lads desarve a threshin.)
Aw can't shake th' carpet bi misen,
Nor lig it square an straightly;—
Th' childer mud help me nah an then,
But they ne'er do nowt reightly.
That bed o' awrs wants shakin up,
All th' flocks has stuck together,
Tha knows they all want braikin up,
Or they'll get tough as leather.
An th' coilhoil wants a coit o' lime,
Then it'll smell mich sweeter,
An th' cellar should be done this time,
It maks it soa mich leeter.
Ther's lots o' little things beside;—
All th' childer's clogs want spetchin,
Jack's hurts his toa, tha'll mak em wide,
Wi varry little stretchin.
Besides, tha raillee wants a rest,
For a neet, or maybe two,
An tha can fix theas trifles best,
Some neet when tha's nowt to do.
Awm net like some at connot feel
For others, aw assure thi:
Tha's tewd until tha'rt owt but weel;
An nowt but rest can cure thi.
Soa come hooam sooin an spend a neet,
Wi me an Jack an Freddy,
They'll think it's ivver sich a treat;
An aw'll have th' whitewesh ready.

Ther's much Expected.

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,
An we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;
Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"
It seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.

But if we'd all anxiously tak
To makkin things smooth as we're able,
Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,
An' monny a better spread table.

It's a sad state o' things when a man
Cannot put ony faith in his brother,
An fancies he'll chait if he can,
An rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.

An it's sad when yo see some at stand
High in social position an power,
To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd,
An built, aght oth' wrecks o' those lower.

It's sad to see luxury rife,
An fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;
While others are wearin out life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.

Some in carriages rollin away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;
But ther chariots may bear em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.

Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An from them varry mich is expected.

An tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come—an surely it will—
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.

An when called on, they, tremblin wi fear,
Say "The hungry an nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall o' ther ear—
"Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.

Coortin Days.

Coortin days,—Coortin days,—loved one an lover!
What wod aw give if those days could come ovver?
Weddin is joyous,—its pleasur unstinted;
But coortin is th' sweetest thing ivver invented.
Walkin an talkin,
An nursin Love's spark,
Charmin an warmin
Tho th' neet may be dark.

Oh! but it's nice when yor way's long and dreary,
To walk wi yor arm raand th' waist ov yor dearie;
Tellin sweet falsehoods, the haars to beguile em,
(If yo tell'd em ith' dayleet they'd put yo ith' sylum.)
But ivverything's fair
I' love an i' war,
But be sewer to act square;—
An do if yo dar!

Squeezin an kissin an kissin an squeezin,—
Laughin an coughin an ticklin an sneezin,—
But remember,—if maybe, sich knowledge yo lack,
Allus smile in her face, but, sneeze at her back.
Yo may think, if a fooil,
Sich a thing nivver mattered,
But a lass, as a rule,
Doesn't want to be spattered.

When th' coortin neet comes, tho' yor appetite's ragin,
Dooant fill up wi oonions, wi mar'gum an sage in,
Remember, the darlin, where centred yor bliss is,
Likes to fancy, yor livin on love an her kisses.
An yor linen, if plain,
Have all spotless an fresh:
Then shoo connot complain,
When shoo has it to wesh.

When Love's flame's been lit, an burst into a glow,
Th' best thing yo can do,—(that's as far as aw know;)
Is to goa to a parson an pay him his price,
An to join yo together he'll put in a splice,
Then together yo'll face
This world's battle an bother,
An if that isn't th' case,
Yo can feight for each other.

Sweet Mistress Moore.

Mistress Moore is Johnny's wife,
An Johnny is a druffen sot;
He spends th' best portion of his life
Ith' beershop wi a pipe an pot.
At schooil together John an me
Set side by side like trusty chums,
An nivver did we disagree
Till furst we met sweet Lizzy Lumbs.
At John shoo smiled,
An aw wor riled;
Shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me;
Her bonny e'en
Aw've seldom seen
Sin that sad day shoo slighted me.

Aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want,
For Johnny ofttimes gets oth' spree;
He spends his wages in a rant,
An leeaves his wife to pine or dee.
An monny a time awve ligged i' bed,
An cursed my fate for bein poor,
An monny a bitter tear awve shed,
When thinkin ov sweet Mistress Moore.
For shoo's mi life
Is Johnny's wife,
An tho to love her isn't reet,
What con aw do,
When all th' neet throo
Awm dreamin ov her e'en soa breet.

Aw'll goa away an leeave this spot,
For fear at we should ivver meet,
For if we did, as sure as shot
Awst throw me daan anent her feet.
Aw know shoo'd think aw wor a fooil,
To love a woman when shoo's wed,
But sin aw saw her furst at schooil,
It's been a wretched life aw've led.
But th' time has come
To leeave mi hooam,
An th' sea between us sooin shall roar,
Yet still mi heart
Will nivver part
Wi' th' image ov sweet Mistress Moore.

Waivin Mewsic.

Ther's mewsic ith' shuttle, ith' loom, an ith frame,
Ther's melody mingled ith' noise;
For th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame,
If they'd harken to th' saand of its voice.
An when flaggin a bit, how refreshin to feel
As you pause an look raand on the throng,
At the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel,
Sing this plain unmistakable song:—
Nick a ting, nock a ting;
Wages keep pocketing;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind;
Keep a contented mind;
Troubles are oft ov a body's own makin.

To see workin fowk wi a smile o' ther face
As they labour thear day after day;
An hear th' women's voices float sweetly throo th' place,
As they join i' some favorite lay;
It saands amang th' din, as the violet seems
At peeps aght th' green dockens among,
Diffusing a charm ovver th' rest by its means,
Thus it blends i' that steady old song;
Nick a ting, nock a ting,
Wages keep pocketing;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind,
Keep a contented mind,
Troubles are oft ov a body's own makin.

An then see what lessons are laid out anent us,
As pick after pick follows time after time,
An warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us
From strivin by little endeavours to climb;
Th' world's made o' trifles, its dust forms a mountain,
Then nivver despair as yor trudgin along,
If troubles will come an yor spirits dishearten,
Yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady owd song;
Nick a ting, nock a ting;
Wages keep pocketin;
Workin for little is better nor laikin;
Twist an twine, reel an wind;
Keep a contented mind;
Troubles are oft ov a body's own makin.

Life's warp comes throo Heaven, th' weft's faand bi us sen,
To finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath;
Th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty, how then?
Noa waiver ith' world can produce a gooid clooath.
Then let us endeavour by workin an strivin,
To finish awr piece so's noa fault can be fun,
An then i' return for awr pains an contrivin,
Th' takker in 'll reward us and whisper "well done."
Clink a clank, clink a clank,
Workin withaat a thank,
May be awr fortun, if soa nivver mind it,
Strivin to do awr best,
We shall be reight at last,
If we lack comfort now, then shall we find it.

Jimmy's Choice.

One limpin Jimmy wed a lass;
An this wor th' way it coom to pass—
He'd saved a little bit o' brass,
An soa he thowt he'd ventur
To tak unto hissen a wife,
To ease his mind ov all its strife,
An be his comfort all throo life—
An, pray, what should prevent her?

"Awve brass enuff," he sed, "for two,
An noa wark at awm foorced to do,
But all th' day long can bill an coo,
Just like a little pigeon.
Aw nivver have a druffen rant;
Aw nivver praich teetotal cant;
Aw nivver booast at awm a saint,
I' matters o' religion.

"Then with a gradely chap like me,
A lass can live mooast happily;
An awl let all awr neighbors see
We'll live withaat a wrangle;
For if two fowk just have a mind
To be to one another kind,
They each may be as easy twined
As th' hannel ov a mangle.

"For love's moor paar nor oaths an blows,
An kind words, ivverybody knows,
Saves monny a hundred thaasand rows;
An soa we'll start wi kindness;
For if a chap thinks he can win
Love or respect wi oaths an din,
He'll surely find he's been let in,
An sarved reight for his blindness."

Soa Jimmy went to tell his tale
To a young lass called Sally Swale,
An just for fear his heart should fail,
He gate a drop o' whiskey.
Net mich, but just enuff, yo see,
To put a spark into his e'e,
An mak his tongue a trifle free,
An mak him strong an frisky.

Young Sally, shoo wor varry shy,
An when he'd done shoo breathed a sigh,
An then began to sob an cry
As if her heart wor brokken.
"Nay, Sally lass,—pray what's amiss?"
He sed, an gave a lovin kiss,
"If awd expected owt like this,
Awm sewer awd ne'er ha spokken."

At last shoo dried her bonny een,
An felt as praad as if a queen;
An nivver king has ivver been
One hawf as praad as Jimmy.
An soa they made all matters sweet,
An one day quietly stroll'd up th' street,
Till th' owd church door coom into seet—
Says Jim, "Come, lass, goa wi me."

Then wed they wor an off they went
To start ther life ov sweet content;
An Sally ax'd him whear he meant
Ther honey-mooin to spend at?
Says Jim, "We're best at hooam, aw think,
We've lots o' stuff to ait an drink."
But Sally gave a knowin wink,
An sed, "Nay, awl net stand that.

"Tha needn't think aw meean to be
Shut up like in a nunnery;
Awm fond o' life, an love a spree,
As weel as onny other."
"Tha cannot goa," sed Jim, "that's flat."
"But goa aw shall, awl tell thee that!
What wod ta have a woman at?
Shame on thee for sich bother!"

Jim scrat his heead, "Nah lass," sed he,
"One on us mun a maister be,
Or else we'st allus disagree,
An nivver live contented."
Sed Sal, "Awd ne'er a maister yet,
An if tha thowt a slave to get,
Tha'll find thisen mista'en, awl bet;
Awm sewer aw nivver meant it."

Jim tried his best to change her mind,
But mud as weel ha saved his wind;
An soa to prove he worn't unkind,
He gave in just to pleeas her.
He's allus follow'd th' plan sin then,
To help her just to pleeas hersen;
An nah, he says, "They're fooilish men
At wed a wife to teeas her."

Old Moorcock.

Awm havin a smook bi misel,
Net a soul here to spaik a word to,
Awve noa gossip to hear nor to tell,
An ther's nowt aw feel anxious to do.

Awve noa noashun o' writin a line,
Tho' awve just dipt mi pen into th' ink,
Towards warkin aw dooant mich incline,
An awm ommost too lazy to think.

Awve noa riches to mak me feel vain,
An yet awve as mich as aw need;
Awve noa sickness to cause me a pain,
An noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed.

Awr Dolly's crept off to her bed,
An aw hear shoo's beginnin to snoor;
(That upset me when furst we wor wed,
But nah it disturbs me noa moor.)

Like me, shoo taks things as they come,
Makkin th' best o' what falls to her lot,
Shoo's content wi her own humble hooam,
For her world's i' this snug little cot.

We know at we're booath growin old,
But Time's traces we hardly can see;
An tho' fifty years o'er us have roll'd,
Shoo's still th' same young Dolly to me.

Her face may be wrinkled an grey,
An her een may be losin ther shine,
But her heart's just as leetsome to-day
As it wor when aw furst made her mine.

Awve mi hobbies to keep me i' toit,
Awve noa whistle nor bell to obey,
Awve mi wark when aw like to goa to it,
An mi time's all mi own, neet an day.

An tho' some pass me by wi a sneer,
An some pity mi lowly estate,
Aw think awve a deeal less to fear
Nor them at's soa wealthy an great.

When th' sky stretches aght blue an breet,
An th' heather's i' blossom all round,
Makkin th' mornin's cooil breezes smell sweet,
As they rustle along ovver th' graand.

When aw listen to th' lark as he sings
Far aboon, ommost lost to mi view,
Aw lang for a pair ov his wings,
To fly wi him, an sing like him, too.

When aw sit under th' shade of a tree,
Wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen,
Aw think them at's sooary for me
Had far better pity thersen.

When wintry storms howl ovver th' moor,
An snow covers all, far an wide,
Aw carefully festen mi door,
An creep cloise up to th' fire inside.

A basin o' porridge may be,
To some a despisable dish,
But it allus comes welcome to me,
If awve nobbut as mich as aw wish.

Mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say,
An aw havn't a daat but it's true;
Yet they answer ther purpose to-day
Just as weel as if th' fashion wor new.

Let them at think joys nobbut dwell
Wheear riches are piled up i' stoor,
Try to get a gooid share for thersel'
But leave me mi snug cot up o'th' moor.

Mi bacca's all done, soa aw'll creep
Off to bed, just as quite as a maase,
For if Dolly's disturbed ov her sleep,
Ther'll be a fine racket i'th' haase.

Aw mun keep th' band i'th' nick if aw can,
For if shoo gets her temper once crost,
All comforts an joys aw may plan
Is just soa mich labour at's lost.

Th' Short-Timer.

Some poets sing o' gipsy queens,
An some o' ladies fine;
Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes,—
A humbler muse is mine.
Jewels, an' gold, an silken frills,
Are things too heigh for me;
But wol mi harp wi vigour thrills,
Aw'll strike a chord for thee.

Poor lassie wan,
Do th' best tha can,
Although thi fate be hard.
A time ther'll be
When sich as thee
Shall have yor full reward.

At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed,
An off tha goes to wark;
An gropes thi way to mill or shed,
Six months o'th' year i'th' dark.
Tha gets but little for thi pains,
But that's noa fault o' thine;
Thi maister reckons up his gains,
An ligs i bed till nine.

Poor lassie wan, &c.

He's little childer ov his own
'At's quite as old as thee;
They ride i' cushioned carriages
'At's beautiful to see;
They'd fear to spoil ther little hand,
To touch thy greasy brat:
It's wark like thine at makes em grand—
They nivver think o' that.

Poor lassie wan, &c.

I' summer time they romp an' play
Where flowers grow wild and sweet;
Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay,
They thrive throo morn to neet.
But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has,
An oft aw've known thee sick;
But tha mun work, poor little lass,
Foa hauf-a-craan a wick.

Poor lassie wan, &c.

Aw envy net fowks' better lot—
Aw shouldn't like to swap.
Aw'm quite contented wi mi cot;
Aw'm but a workin chap.
But if aw had a lot o' brass
Aw'd think o' them at's poor;
Aw'd have yo' childer workin less,
An mak yor wages moor.

Poor lassie wan, &c.

"There is a land of pure delight,
Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain."
Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear,
I' that sweet home ov love;
An' those at scorn thi sufferins here
May envy thee above.

Poor lassie wan, &c.

Sol an' Doll.

Awm a young Yorksher lad as jolly an gay,
As a lark on a sunshiny mornin,
An Dolly's as fair as the flaars i' May,
An trubbles we meean to be scornin.
If we live wol to-morn aw shall make her mi wife,
An we'll donce to a rollickin measure,
For we booath are agreed to begin wedded life,
As we mean to goa throo it, wi pleasure.

Then we'll donce an be gay,
An we'll laff care away,
An we'll nivver sit broodin o'er sorrow,
An mi Dolly an me,
Ax yo all to a spree;
Come an donce at awr weddin to-morrow.

Awst be bashful awm sewer, aw wor ne'er wed befoor,
An aw feel rayther funny abaat it;
But Dolly aw guess can drag me aght o'th' mess,
An if ther's owt short we'll do baat it.
Mi mother says "Sol, if tha'll leave it to Doll,
Tha'll find shoo can taich thee a wrinkle,
Shoo's expectin some fun befoor it's all done
Aw can tell, for aw saw her e'en twinkle."

Then we'll donce &c.

We've a haase to step in, all as smart as a pin,
An we've beddin an furnitur plenty;
We've a pig an a caah, an aw connot tell ha
Monny paands, but aw think abaat twenty.
We've noa family yet, but ther will be aw'll bet,
For true comfort aw think ther's nowt licks it
An if they dooant come, aw'll just let it alooan,
An aw'll leave it for Dolly to fix it.

Then we'll donce &c.

Their Fred.

"He's a nowt!
If ther's owt
At a child shouldn't do,
He mun try,
Or know why,
Befoor th' day's getten throo.
An his dad,
Ov his lad
Taks noa nooatice at all,
Aw declare
It's net fair
For Job's patience he'd stall.
Awm his mam,—
That aw am,
But awm ommost worn aght,
A gooid lick
Wi a stick,
He just cares nowt abaght.
Thear he goes,
Wi a nooas
Like a chaneller's shop!
Aw may call,
Or may bawl,
But th' young imp willn't stop.
Thear's a cat,
He spies that,
Nah he's having a race!—
That's his way
Ivvery day
If a cat's abaght th' place.
But if aw
Wor near by,
Awd just fotch him a seawse!
Come thee here!
Does ta hear?
Come thi ways into th' haase!
Who's that flat?
What's he at?
If he touches awr Fred,
If aw live
Aw'll goa rive
Ivvery hair off his head!
What's th' lad done?
It's his fun!
Tried to kill yor old cat?
Well suppooas
At he does!
Bless mi life! What bi that?
He's mi own,
Flesh an' booan,
An aw'll net have him lickt;
If he's wild,
He's a child,
Pray what can yo expect!
Did um doy!
Little joy!
Let's ha nooan o' them skrikes
Nowty man!
Why he can
Kill a cat if he likes.
Hush a bee, hush a bye,
Little Freddy munnot cry."

Love an' Labor.

Th' swallows are buildin ther nests, Jenny,
Th' springtime has come with its flowers;
Th' fields in ther greenest are drest, Jenny,
An th' songsters mak music ith' bowers.
Daisies an buttercups smile, Jenny,
Laughingly th' brook flows along;—
An awm havin a smook set oth' stile, Jenny,
But this bacca's uncommonly strong.

Aw wonder if thy heart like mine, Jenny,
Finds its love-burden hard to be borne;
Do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, Jenny,
As they glistened an shone yestermorn?
Ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, Jenny,
Aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate;—
But aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, Jenny,
For aw can't live baght summat to ait.

Like a nightingale if aw could sing, Jenny,
Aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet,
An mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, Jenny,
An lull thi to rest soft an sweet.
Or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, Jenny,
Aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish;—
But theas porridge are salty as brine, Jenny,
An they'll mak me as dry as a fish.

A garland ov lillies aw'd twine, Jenny,
An place on thy curls golden bright,
But aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, Jenny,
I' despair at thy brow's purer white.
Them angels 'at fell bi ther pride, Jenny,
Wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt;—
But yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, Jenny,
Aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt.

Varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, Jenny,
An awr cot shall a paradise be;
Tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, Jenny,
If aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee.
If ther's happiness this side oth' grave, Jenny,
Tha shall sewerly come in for thi share;—
An aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, Jenny,
When aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare.

Nooan so Bad.

This world is net a paradise,
Tho' railly aw dooant see,
What fowk should growl soa mich abaat;—
Its gooid enuff for me.
It's th' only world aw've ivver known,
An them 'at grummel soa,
An praich abaat a better land,
Seem varry looath to goa.

Ther's some things 'at awm apt to think,
If aw'd been th' engineer,
Aw might ha changed,—but its noa use,—
Aw connot interfere.
We're foorced to tak it as it is;
What faults we think we see;
It mayn't be what it owt to be,—
But its gooid enuff for me.

Then if we connot alter things,
Its folly to complain;
To hunt for faults an failins,
Allus gooas agean my grain.
When ther's soa monny pleasant things,
Why should we hunt for pain,
If troubles come, we needn't freeat,
For sunshine follows rain.

If th' world gooas cruckt,—what's that to us?
We connot mak it straight;
But aw've come to this conclusion,
'At its th' fowk 'at isn't reight.
If ivverybody 'ud try to do
Ther best wi' th' means they had,
Aw think 'at they'd agree wi' me,—
This world is nooan soa bad.

Th' Honest Hard Worker.

It's hard what poor fowk mun put up wi'!
What insults an snubs they've to tak!
What bowin an scrapin's expected,
If a chap's a black coit on his back.
As if clooas made a chap ony better,
Or riches improved a man's heart;
As if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter
Nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart.

Give me one, hard workin, an' honest,
Tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse;
If it's muck 'at's been getten bi labor,
It doesn't mak th' man onny worse.
Awm sick o' thease simpering dandies,
'At think coss they've getten some brass,
They've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers,
An' curl up their nooas as they pass.

It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin,
To be curlin an partin ther hair;
An seekin one's own fun and pleasure,
Nivver thinkin ha others mun fare.
It's all varry weel to be spendin
Ther time at a hunt or a ball,
But if th' workers war huntin an doncin,
Whativer wod come on us all?

Ther's summat beside fun an frolic
To live for, aw think, if we try;
Th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker
Nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky.
Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful,
An' awve oft felt a want on't misen,
Yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin,
But it wodn't do long withaat men.

One truth they may put i' ther meersham,
An smoke it—that is if they can;
A man may mak hooshuns o' riches,
But riches can ne'er mak a man.
Then give me that honest hard worker,
'At labors throo mornin to neet,
Tho' his rest may be little an seldom,
Yet th' little he gets he finds sweet.

He may rank wi' his wealthier brother,
An rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some;
For a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor
Is a passport to th' world 'at's to come.
For we know it's a sin to be idle,
As man's days i' this world are but few;
Then let's all wi' awr lot be contented,
An continue to toil an to tew.

For ther's one thing we all may be sure on,
If we each do awr best wol we're here;
'At when th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on,
We shall have varry little to fear.
An at last, when we throw daan awr tackle,
An are biddin farewell to life's stage,
May we hear a voice whisper at partin,
"Come on, lad! Tha's haddled thi wage."

Peevish Poll.

Aw've heeard ov Mary Mischief,
An aw've read ov Natterin Nan;
An aw've known a Grumlin Judy,
An a cross-grained Sarah Ann;
But wi' all ther faults an failins,
They still seem varry tame,
Compared to one aw'll tell yo on,
But aw dursn't tell her name.

Aw'll simply call her Peevish Poll,
That name suits to a dot;
But if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her,
Yo bet, aw'st get it hot.
Shoo's fat an fair an forty,
An her smile's as sweet as spice,
An her voice is low an tender
When shoo's tryin to act nice.

Shoo's lots ov little winnin ways,
'At fit her like a glove;
An fowk say shoo's allus pleasant,—
Just a woman they could love.
But if they nobbut had her,
They'd find aght for a start,
It isn't her wi' th' sweetest smile
At's getten th' kindest heart.

Haivver her poor husband lives
An stands it,—that licks doll!
Aw'st ha been hung if aw'd been cursed
Wi' sich a wife as Poll!
Her children three, sneak in an aght
As if they wor hawf deead
They seem expectin, hawf ther time,
A claat o'th' side o'th' heead.

If they goa aght to laik, shoo storms
Abaat her looanly state;
If they stop in, then shoo declares
They're allus in her gate.
If they should start to sing or tawk
Shoo tells 'em, "hold yor din!"
An if they all sit mum, shoo says,
"It railly is a sin
To think ha shoo's to sit an mope,
All th' time at they're away,
An when they're hooam they sit like stoops
Withaat a word to say."

If feelin cold they creep near th' fire,
They'll varry sooin get floored;
Then shoo'll oppen th' door an winder
Declarin shoo's fair smoored.
When its soa swelterin an hot
They can hardly get ther breeath,
Shoo'll pile on coils an shut all cloise,
An sware shoo's starved to deeath.

Whativver's wrang when they're abaat,
Is their fault for bein thear;
An if owt's wrang when they're away,
It's coss they wornt near.
To keep 'em all i' misery,
Is th' only joy shoo knows;
An then shoo blames her husband,
For bein allus makkin rows.

Poor chap he's wearin fast away,—
He'll leeav us before long;
A castiron man wod have noa chonce
Wi' sich a woman's tongue.
An then shoo'll freeat and sigh, an try
His virtues to extol;
But th' mourner, mooast sincere will be
That chap 'at next weds Poll.

The Old Bachelor's Story.

It was an humble cottage,
Snug in a rustic lane,
Geraniums and fuschias peep'd
From every window-pane;

The dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls,
Houseleek adorned the thatch;
The door was standing open wide,—
They had no need of latch.

And close besides the corner
There stood an old stone well,
Which caught a mimic waterfall,
That warbled as it fell.

The cat, crouched on the well-worn steps,
Was blinking in the sun;
The birds sang out a welcome
To the morning just begun.

An air of peace and happiness
Pervaded all the scene;
The tall trees formed a back ground
Of rich and varied green;

And all was steeped in quietness,
Save nature's music wild,
When all at once, methought I heard
The sobbing of a child.

I listened, and the sound again
Smote clearly on my ear:
"Can there,"—I wondering asked myself—
"Can there be sorrow here?"—

I looked within, and on the floor
Was sat a little boy,
Striving to soothe his sister's grief
By giving her a toy.

"Why weeps your sister thus?" I asked;
"What is her cause of grief?
Come tell me, little man," I said,
"Come tell me, and be brief."

Clasping his sister closer still,
He kissed her tear-stained face,
And thus, in homely Yorkshire phrase,
He told their mournful case.

———

"Mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear,
I' th' shut-up bed i'th' nook;
An' tho aw've tried to wakken her,
Shoo'll nawther spaik nor look.

Mi sissy wants her porridge,
An its time shoo had 'em too;
But th' foir's gooan aght an th' mail's all done—
Aw dooant know what to do.

An O, my mammy's varry cold—
Just come an touch her arm:
Aw've done mi best to hap her up,
But connot mak her warm.

Mi daddy he once fell asleep,
An nivver wakken'd moor:
Aw saw 'em put him in a box,
An tak him aght o'th' door.

He nivver comes to see us nah,
As once he used to do,
An let mi ride upon his back—
Me, an mi sissy too.

An if they know mi mammy sleeps,
Soa cold, an white, an still,
Aw'm feeard they'll come an fotch her, sir;
O, sir, aw'm feeard they will!

Aw happen could get on misen,
For aw con work a bit,
But little sissy, sir, yo see,
Shoo's varry young as yet.

Oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam!
Help me to rouse her up!
An if shoo wants her physic,
See,—it's in this little cup.

Aw know her heead wor bad last neet,
When putting us to bed;
Shoo said, 'God bless yo, little things!'
An that wor all shoo sed.

Aw saw a tear wor in her e'e—
In fact, it's seldom dry:
Sin daddy went shoo allus cries,
But nivver tells us why.

Aw think it's coss he isn't here,
'At maks her e'en soa dim;
Shoo says, he'll nivver come to us,
But we may goa to him.

But if shoo's gooan an left us here,
What mun we do or say?—
We connot follow her unless,
Somebody 'll show us th' way."

——

My heart was full to bursting,
When I heard the woeful tale;
I gazed a moment on the face
Which death had left so pale;

Then clasping to my heaving breast
The little orphan pair,
I sank upon my bended knees,
And offered up a prayer,

That God would give me power to aid
Those children in distress,
That I might as a father be
Unto the fatherless.

Then coaxingly I led them forth;
And as the road was long,
I bore them in my arms by turns—
Their tears had made me strong.

I took them to my humble home,
Where now they may be seen,
The lad,—a noble-minded youth,—
His "sissy,"—beauty's queen.

And now if you should chance to see,
Far from the bustling throng,
An old man, whom a youth and maid
Lead tenderly along;—

And if you, wondering, long to know
The history of the three,—
They are the little orphan pair—
The poor old man is me:

And oft upon the grassy mound
'Neath which their parents sleep,
They bend the knee, and pray for me;
I pray for them and weep.

Did yo Ivver!

"Gooid gracious!" cried Susy, one fine summer's morn,
"Here's a bonny to do! aw declare!
Aw wor nivver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born!
Aw neer saw sich a seet at a fair.

Here, Sally! come luk! There's a maase made its nest
Reight i'th' craan o' mi new Sundy bonnet!
Haivver its fun its way into this chist,
That caps me! Aw'm fast what to mak on it!

It's cut! Sithee thear! It's run reight under th' bed!
An luk here! What's these little things stirrin?
If they arn't some young uns 'at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred,
May aw be as deead as a herrin!

But what does ta say? 'Aw mun draand 'em?' nooan soa!
Just luk ha they're seekin ther mother;
Shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa;
For awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother.

But its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear;
For mi old en's net fit to be seen in;
An this new en, awm thinkin, 'll luk rayther queer
After sich a rum lot as that's been in.

But shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say;
Yo mun keep a sharp eye or shoo'll chait us;
Ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! An pray
What mun become o' these poor helpless crayturs?

A'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet,
'At's a roof o' ther own to cawer under,
For if we'd to seek ony nook we could get,
Whativver'd come on us aw wonder?

We should nooan on us like to be turned aght o' door,
Wi' a lot o' young bairns to take care on;
An altho' awm baght bonnet, an think misen poor,
What little aw have yo'st have't share on.

That poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm,
Shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me;
All shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an warm
An a gooid two-o'-three shillin its lost me.

Aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk,
They'll be aristocratical varmin;
But awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk,
An na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin.

Bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! If we try
Awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em,
But as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly!
Nivver mind if aw dooant! harum scarum!"

A Quiet Tawk.

"Nah, lass, caar thi daan, an let's have a chat,—
It's long sin we'd th' haase to ussen;
Just give me thi nooations o' this thing an that,
What tha thinks abaat measures an men.
We've lived a long time i' this world an we've seen,
A share of its joys an its cares;
Tha wor nooan born baght wit, an tha'rt net varry green,
Soa let's hear what tha thinks of affairs."

"Well, Jooany, aw've thowt a gooid deal i' mi time,
An aw think wi' one thing tha'll agree,—
If tha'd listened sometimes to advice sich as mine,
It mud ha been better for thee.
This smookin an drinkin—tha knows tha does booath,
It's a sad waste o' brass tha'll admit;
But awm net findin fault,—noa indeed! awd be looath!
But aw want thi to reason a bit."

"Then tha'rt lawse i' thi tawk, tho' tha doesn't mean wrang,
An tha says stuff aw darnt repeat;
An tha grumels at hooam if we chonce to be thrang,
When tha comes throo thi wark of a neet.
An if th' childer are noisy, tha kicks up a shine,
Tha mud want 'em as dummy as wax;
An if they should want owt to laik wi' 'at's thine,
They're ommost too freetened to ax."

"An they all want new clooas, they're ashamed to be seen,
An aw've net had a new cap this year;
An awm sewer it's fair cappin ha careful we've been,
There's nooan like us for that onnywhear."
"Come, lass, that's enuff,—when aw ax'd thi to talk,
It worn't a sarmon aw meant,
Soa aw'll don on mi hat, an aw'll goa for a walk,
For dang it! tha'rt nivver content!"

Lines, on Startling a Rabbit.

Whew!—Tha'rt in a famous hurry!
Awm nooan baan to try to catch thi!
Aw've noa dogs wi' me to worry
Thee poor thing,—aw like to watch thi.
Tha'rt a runner! aw dar back thi,
Why, tha ommost seems to fly!
Did ta think aw meant to tak thi?
Well, awm fond o' rabbit pie.

Aw dooan't want th' world to misen, mun,
Awm nooan like a dog i'th' manger;
Yet still 'twor happen best to run,
For tha'rt th' safest aght o' danger.
An sometimes fowks' inclination
Leads 'em to do what they shouldn't;—
But tha's saved me a temptation,—
Aw've net harmed thi, 'coss aw couldn't.

Aw wish all temptations fled me,
As tha's fled throo me to-day;
For they've oft to trouble led me,
For which aw've had dear to pay.
An a taicher wise aw've faand thi,
An this lesson gained throo thee;
'At when dangers gether raand me,
Th' wisest tactics is to flee.

They may call thi coward, Bunny,
But if mine had been thy lot,
Aw should fail to see owt funny,
To be stewin in a pot.
Life to thee, awm sewer is sweeter,
Nor thi flesh to me could prove;
May thy lot an mine grow breeter,
Blest wi' liberty an love.

Nivver Heed.

Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class,
'At's strugglin to pool throo;
An if it's little 'at aw get,
It's little 'at aw need;
An if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to nivver heed.

Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An dine off silver plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An things they find they connot get,
Why, try to nivver heed.

Ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls,
An letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi' grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! nivver heed!

Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,
An th' flaars smile at mi feet.
An when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed;
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, nivver heed.

Gronfayther's Days.

'A, Johnny! A'a, Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!
But come thi ways to me, an sit o' mi knee;
For it's shockin to hearken to th' words 'at tha says;—
Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days.

When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then;
But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen;
For they smook, an they drink, an get other bad ways;
Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.

Aw remember th' furst day aw went cooartin a bit,—
An walked aght thi gronny;—aw'st nivver forget;
For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;—
It wor noa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days,

Ther's noa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed;
They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead;
They're a mak-up o' buckram, an waddin, an stays,—
But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.

At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor,
But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door;
He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays;
Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.

Ther's chimleys an factrys i' ivvery nook nah,
But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah;
An ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways,
Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.

We're tell'd to be thankful for blessin's 'at's sent,
An aw hooap 'at tha'll alius be blessed wi' content;
Tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays,
But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.

Awr Dooad.

Her ladyship's getten a babby,—
An they're makkin a famous to do,—
They say,—Providence treated her shabby—
Shoo wor fairly entitled to two.
But judgin bi th' fuss an rejoicin,
It's happen as weel as it is;
For they could'nt mak moor ov a hoilful,
Nor what they are makkin o' this.

He's heir to ther titles an riches,
Far moor nor he ivver can spend;
Wi' hard times an cold poverty's twitches,
He'll nivver be called to contend.
Life's rooad will be booarded wi' flaars,
An pleasur will wait on his train,
He can suck at life's sweets, an its saars
Will nivver need cause him a pain.

Aw cannot help thinkin ha diff'rent
It wor when awr Dooady wor born;
Aw'd to tramp fifteen mile throo a snow storm,
One bitterly, cold early morn.
Aw'd to goa ax old Mally-o'th'-Hippins,
If shoo'd act as booath doctor an nurse;—
An God bless her! shoo sed, "Aye, an welcome,"
Tho' aw had'nt a meg i' mi purse.

'Twor hard scrattin to get what wor needed,
But we managed someha, to pool throo';
An what we wor short we ne'er heeded,
For that child fun us plenty to do.
But we'd health, an we loved one another,
Soa things breetened up after a while;
An nah, that young lad an his mother,
Cheer mi on wi' ther prattle an smile.

Them at th' Hall, may mak feeastin an bluster,
An ther table may grooan wi' its looad;
But ther's one thing aw know they can't muster,—
That's a lad hawf as grand as awr Dooad.
For his face is like lillies an rooases,
An his limbs sich as seldom are seen;
An just like his father's his nooas is,
An he's getten his mother's blue een.

Soa th' lord an his lady are welcome,
To mak all they like o' ther brat;
They may hap him i' silk an i' velvet,—
He's net a bit better for that.
I' life's race they'll meet all sooarts o' weather,
But if they start fair on th' same rooad,
They may run pratty nearly together,
But aw'll bet two to one on awr Dooad.

Whear Natur Missed it.

As Rueben wor smookin his pipe tother neet,
Bi th' corner o'th' little "Slip Inn;"
He spied some fowk marchin, an fancied he heeard
A varry queer sooart ov a din.
As nearer they coom he sed, "Bless mi life!
What means all this hullaballoo?
If they dooant stop that din they'll sewer get run in,
An just sarve 'em reight if they do."

But as they approached, he saw wi' surprise,
They seemed a respectable lot;
An th' hymn at they sung he'd net heeard for soa long,
Wol he felt fairly rooited to th' spot.
I'th' front wor a woman who walked backards rooad,
Beatin time wi' a big umberel,
An he sed, "Well, aw'll bet, that licks all aw've seen yet,
What they'll do next noa mortal can tell."

On they coom like a flood, an shoo saw Rueben stood,—
An her een seemed fair blazin wi' leet;
"Halt!" shoo cried, an shoo went an varry sooin sent
Rueben's pipe flyin off into th' street.
"Young man," shoo began, "if yo had been born
To smoke that old pipe, then insteead,
Ov a nice crop o' hair Natur wod a put thear
A chimly at top o' thi heead."

Rueben felt rather mad, for 'twor all th' pipe he had,
An he sed, "Well, that happen mud be;
But aw'm nobbut human, an thee bein a woman
Has proved a salvation to thee.
If a chap had done that aw'd ha knocked him daan flat,
But wi' yo its a different thing;
But aw'm thinkin someha, th' same law will allaa
Me too smook, at allaas yo to sing."

Shoo gloored in his face an went back to her place,
As shoo gave him a witherin luk;
An swung her umbrel,—ovverbalanced, an fell
An ligg'd sprawlin her length amang th' muck.
All her army seemed dumb, an th' chap wi' th' big drum,
Turned a bulnex, an let on her chest;
Wol th' fiddles an flute wor ivvery one mute,
An th' tamborines tuk a short rest.

Then Rueben drew near, an he sed in her ear,
As he lifted her onto her feet;
"Sometimes its as wise when we start to advise,
To be mindful we're net indiscreet.
If yo'd been intended to walk backardsway,
To save yo from gettin that bump,
Dame Natur, in kindness, aw'll ventur to say,
Wod ha planted a e'e i' yor bustle."

That's All.

Mi hair is besprinkled wi' gray,
An mi face has grown wrinkled an wan;—
They say ivvery dog has his day,
An noa daat its th' same way wi a man.
Aw know at mi day is nah passed,
An life's twileet is all at remains;
An neet's drawin near varry fast,—
An will end all mi troubles an pains.

Aw can see misen, nah, as a lad,
Full ov mischief an frolic an fun;—
An aw see what fine chonces aw had,
An regret lots o' things at aw've done.
Thowtless deeds—unkind words—selfish gains,—
Time wasted, an more things beside,
But th' saddest thowt ivver remains,—
What aw could ha done, if aw'd but tried.

Aw've had a fair share ov life's joys,
An aw've nivver known th' want ov a meal;
Aw've ne'er laiked wi' luxuries' toys,
Nor suffered what starvin fowk feel.
But aw'm moor discontented to-day,
When mi memory carries me back,
To know what aw've gethered is clay,
Wol diamonds wor strewed on mi track.

Aw can't begin ovver agean,
(Maybe its as weel as it is,)
Soa aw'm waitin for th' life 'at's to be,
For ther's nowt to be praad on i' this.
When deeath comes, as sewerly it will,
An aw'm foorced to respond to his call;
Fowk'll say, if they think on me still,—
"Well, he lived,—an that's abaat all."

Mary Hanner's Peanner.

When aw cooarted Mary Hanner,
Aw wor young an varry shy;
An shoo used to play th' peanner
Wol aw sheepishly sat by.
Aw lang'd to tell her summat,
But aw railly hadn't th' pluck,
Tho' monny a time aw started,
Yet, somha aw allus stuck.

Aw'm sewer shoo must ha guess'd it,
But shoo nivver gave a sign;
Shoo drummed at that peanner;—
A'a! aw wish it had been mine!
Aw'd ha chopt it into matchwood,—
Aw'd ha punced it into th' street,
It wor awful aggravatin,
For shoo thumpt it ivvery neet.

Aw'd getten ommost sickened,
When one day another chap
Aw saw thear, an he'd getten
Mary Hanner on his lap.
Aw didn't stop to argyfy,—
But fell'd him like an ox;
An Mary Hanner tried to fly
On top o'th' music box.

But he wor gam,—an sich a job
Aw'd nivver had befor,
We fowt, but aw proved maister,
An aw punced him aght o'th' door.
Then like a Tigercat, at me
Flew ragin Mary Hammer;—
Yo bet! shoo could thump summat else,
Besides her loud peanner!

Aw had to stand an tak her blows,
Until shoo'd geeten winded;
"Tha scamp!" shoo says, "tha little knows
What bargainin tha's hindered!
Awr Jack had nobbut coom to pay,
Becoss he's bowt th' peanner,
An nah tha's driven him away!"
"Forgie me, Mary Hanner."

Aw ran aghtside an sooin fan Jack,
An humbly begged his parden;—
"All reight,"—he sed, "aw'm commin back,"
He didn't care a farden.
He paid her th' brass, then fetched a cart,
An hauled away th' peanner;—
We're wed sin then, an nowt shall part,
Me an mi Mary Hanner.

Grondad's Lullaby.

Sleep bonny babby, thi grondad is near,
Noa harm can touch thee, sleep withaat fear;
Innocent craytur, soa helpless an waik,
Grondad wod give up his life for thy sake,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.

Through the thick mist of past years aw luk back,
Vainly aw try to discover the track
Buried, alas! for no trace can aw see,
Ov the way aw once trod when as sinless as thee,
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.

Smilin in slumber,—dreamin ov bliss,
Feelin in fancy a fond mother's kiss;
Richer bi far nor a king on his throne,
Fearlessly facing a future unknown.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.

What wod aw give could aw once agean be,
Innocent, spotless an trustin as thee;
May noa grief give thee occasion to weep,
Blessins attend thee!—Sleep, beauty, sleep.
Sleep little beauty,
Angels thee keep,
Grondad is watchin,
Sleep, beauty, sleep.

Sixty, Turned, To-day.

Aw'm turned o' sixty, nah, old lass,
Yet weel aw mind the time,
When like a young horse turned to grass,
Aw gloried i' mi prime.
Aw'st ne'er forget that bonny face
'At stole mi heart away;
Tho' years have hurried on apace:—
Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.

We had some jolly pranks an gams,
E'en fifty year ago,
When sportive as a pair o' lambs,
We nivver dreeamed ov woe.
When ivvery morn we left us bed,
Wi' spirits leet an gay,—
But nah, old lass, those days have fled:—
Aw'm sixty, turned, to-day.

Yet we've noa reason to repine,
Or luk back wi' regret;
Those youthful days ov thine an mine,
Live sweet in mem'ry yet.
Thy winnin smile aw still can see,
An tho' thi hair's turned grey;
Tha'rt still as sweet an dear to me,
Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.

We've troubles had, an sickness too,
But then in spite ov all,
We've somha managed to pool throo,
Whativver might befall.
Awr pleasurs far outweighed the pain
We've met along life's way;
An losses past aw caant as gain,—
When sixty, turned, to-day.

Awr childer nah are wed an gooan,
To mak hooams for thersels;
But we shall nivver feel alooan,
Wol love within us dwells.
We're drawin near awr journey's end,
We can't much longer stay;
Yet still awr hearts together blend,
Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.

Then let us humbly bow the knee,
To Him, whose wondrous love,
Has helpt an guided thee an me,
On th' pathway to above.
His mercies we will ne'er forget,
Then let us praise an pray,
To Him whose wings protect us yet;
Tho' sixty, turned, to-day.

That Lad Next Door.

Aw've nowt agean mi naybors,
An aw wod'nt have it sed
'At aw wor cross an twazzy,
For aw'm kind an mild asteead.
But ther's an end to patience,
E'en Job knew that aw'm sewer;—
An he nivver had noa dealins
Wi' that lad 'at lives next door.

It wod'nt do to tell 'em
What aw think abaat that lad,
One thing aw'm sarten sewer on,
Is, he's ivverything 'at's bad.
He's nivver aght o' mischief,
An he nivver stops his din,—
He's noa sooiner aght o' one scrape,
Nor he's another in.

If he wor mine aw'd thresh him,
Wol th' skin coom off his back;
Aw'd cure him teein door-snecks,
Then givin th' door a whack.
Aw'd leearn him to draw th' shape o' me
Wi' chalk on th' nessy door,
An mak mud pies o' awr front steps
An leeav 'em thear bi th' scooar.

He's been a trifle quieter
For this last day or two;
He's up to some new devilment,—
Aw dooant know what he'll do.
But here's his father comin,
He's lukkin awful sad,—
Noa wonder,—aw'st be sad enuff
If aw had sich a lad.

Aw nivver thowt 'at aw could feel
Sich sorrow, or should grieve,
But little Dick is varry sick,
They dunnot think he'll live.
Aw'd nivver nowt agean him!
Aw liked that lad aw'm sure!
Pray God, be merciful, an spare
That lad 'at lives next door.

A Summer Shaar.

It nobbut luks like tother day,
Sin Jane an me first met;
Yet fifty years have rolled away,
But still aw dooant forget.
Th' Sundy schooil wor ovver,
An th' rain wor teemin daan
An shoo had nowt to cover
Her Sundy hat an gaan.
Aw had an umberella,
Quite big enuff for two,
Soa aw made bold to tell her,
Shoo'd be sewer to get weet throo,
Unless shoo'd share it wi' me.
Shoo blushed an sed, "Nay, Ben,
If they should see me wi' thi,
What wod yo're fowk say then?"
"Ne'er heed," says aw, "Tha need'nt care
What other fowk may say;
Ther's room for me an some to spare,
Soa let's start on us way."
Shoo tuk mi arm wi' modest grace,
We booath felt rayther shy;
But then aw'm sewer 'twor noa disgrace,
To keep her new clooas dry.
Aw tried to tawk on different things,
But ivvery thowt aw'd had,
Seem'd to ha flown as if they'd wings,
An left me speechless mad.
But when we gate cloise to her door,
Aw stopt an whispered, "Jane,
Aw'd like to walk wi' thee some moor,
When it doesn't chonce to rain."
Shoo smiled an blushed an sed, "For shame!"
But aw tuk courage then.
Aw cared net if all th' world should blame,
Aw meant to pleas misen,
For shoo wor th' grandest lass i'th' schooil
An th' best,—noa matter what;—
Aw should ha been a sackless fooil,
To miss a chonce like that.
Soa oft we met to stroll an tawk,
Noa matter, rain or shine;
An one neet as we tuk a walk,
Aw ax't her to be mine.
Shoo gave consent, an sooin we wed:—
Sin' then we've had full share
Ov rough an smooth, yet still we've led
A life ov little care.
An monny a time aw say to Jane,
If things luk dull an bad;—
Cheer up! tha knows we owe to th' rain
All th' joys o' life we've had.

Awr Lad.

Beautiful babby! Beautiful lad!
Pride o' thi mother and joy o' thi dad!
Full ov sly tricks an sweet winnin ways;—
Two cherry lips whear a smile ivver plays;
Two little een ov heavenly blue,—
Wonderinly starin at ivverything new,
Two little cheeks like leaves of a rooas,—
An planted between em a wee little nooas.
A chin wi' a dimple 'at tempts one to kiss;—
Nivver wor bonnier babby nor this.
Two little hands 'at are seldom at rest,—
Except when asleep in thy snug little nest.
Two little feet 'at are kickin all day,
Up an daan, in an aght, like two kittens at play.
Welcome as dewdrops 'at freshen the flaars,
Soa has thy commin cheered this life ov awrs.
What tha may come to noa mortal can tell;—
We hooap an we pray 'at all may be well.
We've other young taistrels, one, two an three,
But net one ith' bunch is moor welcome nor thee.
Sometimes we are tempted to grummel an freeat,
Becoss we goa short ov what other fowk get.
Poverty sometimes we have as a guest,
But tha needn't fear, tha shall share ov the best.
What are fowks' riches to mother an me?
All they have wodn't buy sich a babby as thee.
Aw wor warned i' mi young days 'at weddin browt woe,
'At labor an worry wod keep a chap low,—
'At love aght o' th' winder wod varry sooin flee,
When poverty coom in at th' door,—but aw see
Old fowk an old sayins sometimes miss ther mark,
For love shines aght breetest when all raand is dark.
Ther's monny a nobleman, wed an hawf wild,
'At wod give hawf his fortun to have sich a child.
Then why should we envy his wealth an his lands,
Tho' sarvents attend to obey his commands?
For we have the treasures noa riches can buy,
An aw think we can keep 'em,—at leeast we can try;
An if it should pleeas Him who orders all things,
To call yo away to rest under His wings,—
Tho' to part wod be hard, yet this comfort is giv'n,
We shall know 'at awr treasures are safe up i' Heaven,
Whear no moth an noa rust can corrupt or destroy,
Nor thieves can braik in, nor troubles annoy.
Blessins on thi! wee thing,—an whativver thi lot,
Tha'rt promised a mansion, tho' born in a cot,
What fate is befoor thi noa mortal can see,
But Christ coom to call just sich childer as thee.
An this thowt oft cheers me, tho' fortun may fraan,
Tha may yet be a jewel to shine in His craan.

Bonny Mary Ann.

When but a little toddlin thing,
I'th' heather sweet shoo'd play,
An like a fay on truant wing,
Shoo'd rammel far away;
An even butterflees wod come
Her lovely face to scan,
An th' burds wod sing ther sweetest song,
For bonny Mary Ann.

Shoo didn't fade as years flew by,
But added day bi day,
Some little touch ov witchery,—
Some little winnin way.
Her lovely limbs an angel face,
To paint noa mortal can;
Shoo seemed possessed ov ivvery grace,
Did bonny Mary Ann.

To win her wod be heaven indeed,
Soa off aw went to woo;
Mi tale o' love shoo didn't heed,
Altho' mi heart spake too.
Aw axt, "what wants ta, onnyway?"
Shoo sed, "aw want a man,"
Then laffin gay, shoo tript away,—
Mi bonny Mary Ann.

Thinks aw, well, aw'll be man enough
To leeav thi to thisen,
Some day tha'll net be quite as chuff,
Aw'll wait an try thi then.
'Twor hard,—it ommost braik mi heart
To carry aght mi plan;
But honestly aw played mi part,
An lost mi Mary Ann.

For nah shoo's wed an lost yo see,
But oh! revenge is sweet;
Her husband's less bi th' hawf nor me,
His face is like a freet;
An what enticed her aw must own,
To guess noa mortal can;
For what it is, is nobbut known,—
To him an Mary Ann.

That Christmas Puddin.

Ha weel aw remember that big Christmas puddin,
That puddin mooast famous ov all in a year;
When each lad at th' table mud stuff all he could in,
An ne'er have a word ov refusal to fear.
Ha its raand speckled face, craand wi' sprigs o' green holly
Seem'd sweeatin wi' juices ov currans an plums;
An its fat cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly,
For it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums,
That big Christmas pudding,—That rich steamin puddin,—
That scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made.

Ther wor father an mother,—awr Hannah an Mary,
Uncle Tom an ont Nancy, an smart cussin Jim;
An Jim's sister Kitty, as sweet as a fairy,—
An Sam wi' his fiddle,—we couldn't spare him.
We'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin,
Boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind;
An fooamin hooam brewed,—why,—aw think we'd enuff in,
To sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined.
An then we'd that puddin—That thumpin big puddin—
That rich Christmas puddin, mi mother had made.

Sam sat next to Mary an Jim tuk awr Hannah,
An Kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,—
An th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner,
'At mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see.
They wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended,
An all seem'd as happy as happy could be;
An aw've nivver repented, for Kitty consented,
An shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me.
An aw think o' that puddin,—That fateful plum puddin,—
That match makkin puddin mi mother had made.

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin at mi heead;
Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps,
Whearivver they may leead;
Aw'd rayther ventur in a den,
An stail a lion's cub;
Aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave
In an old leaky tub.
Aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim.
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An leeav all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An spare yo when they've past.
Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Mak poverty yo're friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.

Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;
He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair.
He leads yo on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend;
He get's yo once within his coils,
An crushes yo i'th' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght,
An seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.

Fairly Weel-off.

Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,—
Ov drink aw seldom want a gill;
Aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm,
Should winds be cold or th' sun be warm.

Aw rarely have a sickly spell,—
Mi appetite aw'm fain to tell
Ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me,
Nowt ivver seems to disagree.

Aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,—
Sometimes aw laik a day or two,—
Mi wage is nobbut small, but yet,
Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.

Mi wife, God bless her! ivvery neet
Has slippers warmin for mi feet;
An th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid,
An th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made.

An th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed,
Wi' health an happiness are blest;
An th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen,
Is th' grandest babby ivver seen.

Aw've friends, tho' humble like misen,
They're gradely, upright, workin-men,
They're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;—
They do what's reight as near's they con.

Aw tak small stock i' politics,
For lib'ral shams an tooary tricks,
Have made me daat 'em one an all;—
Ther words are big, but deeds are small.

Aw goa to th' chapil, yet confess
Aw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less,
For th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa,
Ne'er seem in onny haste to goa.

To me, religion seems quite plain;—
Aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain,
Aw do a kind act when aw can,
An hooap to dee an honest man.

Aw hooap to live till old an gray,
An when th' time comes to goa away,
Aw feel convinced some place ther'll be,
Just fit for sich a chap as me.

Green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars,
Are treasures we can all call awrs,
An when hooam is earth's fairest spot
One should be thankful for his lot.

Aw'm nooan contented,—nay, net aw!
Aw nivver con be tho' aw try;
But aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have,
An if aw for moor blessins crave,
It's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns,
To spare them my life's ups an daans.

Well, yo may laff, an sneerin say,
Aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;—
Maybe aw am,—but yo'll agree,
Ther's few fowk better off nor me.

A Warnin.

A'a dear, what it is to be big!
To be big i' one's own estimation,
To think if we shake a lawse leg,
'At th' world feels a tremblin sensation.
To fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill,
Wod be empty if we worn't in it,
'At th' universe wheels wod stand still,
If we should neglect things a minnit.

To be able to tell all we meet,
Just what they should do or leeav undone;
To be crammed full o' wisdom an wit,
Like a college professor throo Lundun.
To show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,—
To show whear philosifers blunder;
To prove parsons an doctors all quacks,
An strike men o' science wi' wonder.

But aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men,
'At strut along th' streets like a bantam,
Nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen,
For they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em.
At ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in,
Yo may find 'em booath humble an civil,
Wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din,
Bi yellin an raisin the devil.

A'a dear, what it is to be big!
But a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it,
For th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig,
An a thaasand to one doesn't know it.
Consait, aw have often heeard say,
Is war for a chap nor consumption,
An aw'll back a plain chap onny day,
To succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun.

My advice to young fowk is to try
To grow honestly better an wiser;
An yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,—
True merit's its own advertiser.
False colors yo'll seldom find fast,
An a mak-believe is but a bubble,
It's sure to get brussen at last,
An contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble.

To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester.
Born at Hull, November, 1806. Died at Beeston, near Nottingham,
March 13th, 1892.

Wallett, old friend! Thy way's been long;—
Few livin can luk farther back;
But tha has left, bi jest an song,
A sunny gleam along thy track.
Aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns,
Yet aw remember when a lad,
Sittin an listnin to thy yarns,
An thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had.

Full monny a lesson, quaintly towt,
Wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still;
Nor can aw call to mind ther's owt
Tha sed or did, to work me ill!
Noa laff tha raised do aw regret,—
Wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan,
Which had aw heeded, aw admit,
Aw should ha been a better man.

Aw'd like to meet thee once agean,
An clink awr glasses as of yore,
An hear thi rail at all things meean,
An praise an cheer the honest poor.
Aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld,
'At nobbut tha knows ha to tell;—
Unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;—
A'a dear! Aw'm growin owd misel.

We'st miss thee, Wallett, when tha goas,
(May that sad time be far away;
For when tha doffs thi motley clooas,
An pays that debt we all mun pay,)
We'st feel ther's one link less to bind,
Us to this 'vain an fleetin show,'
An we'st net tarry long behind,—
We may goa furst for owt we know.

Well,—if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,—
Noa moor enjoy thy social chat,—
Aw send thi from this distant land,
True friendship's greetin,—This is that.
May ivvery comfort earth can give,
Be thine henceforward to the end,
An tho' the sea divides, believe
Ther's one who's proud to call thee friend.

Lads an Lasses.

Lads an lasses lend yor ears
Unto an old man's rhyme,
Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers,
It's all a waste o' time.
Some little wisdom yo may gain,
Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget:
Soa blame me net for spaikin plain,
Yo'll find it's better net.

For yo, life's journey may be long,
Or it may end to-day;
Deeath gethers in the young an strong,
Along wi' th' old an gray.
Then nivver do an unkind thing,
Which yo will sure regret,
Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,—
Yo'll find it's better net.

If yo've a duty to get throo,
Goa at it with a will,
Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do,
That mak's it harder still.
Dooant think to-morn is time enuff
For what to-day is set,
Nor trust to others for ther help,
Yo'll find it's better net.

If little wealth falls to yor share,
Try nivver to repine;
But struggle on wi' thrift an' care,—
Some day the sun will shine.
It's better to be livin poor,
Than running into debt,
An bavin duns coom to yor door;—
Yo'll find it's better net.

When tempted bi some jolly friend,
To join him in a spree,
Remember sich things sometimes end
I' pain an misery.
Be firm an let temptations pass
As if they'd ne'er been met,
An nivver drain the sparklin glass;—
Yo'll find it's better net.

Mak trewth an honesty yor guide,
Tho' some may laff an rail,
Fear net, whativver ills betide,
At last yo must prevail.
Contented wi' yor portion be
Nor let yor heart be set,
On things below 'at fade an dee,—
Yo'll find it's better net.

A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,—bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,—
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,—
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat,—
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm;—
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,—
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;
Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,
To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,
An monny a tear shoo shed;
For shoo'd once had a darlin lad
But he, alas! wor dead.
This little waif seemed sent to cheer,
An fill her darlin's place;
An to her heart shoo prest him near,
An kissed his little face.

Matty's Reason.

"Nah, Matty! what meeans all this fuss?
Tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be;
Ther must be some reason, becoss
It used to be diff'rent wi' thee.

Aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoor
If aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain;
Ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer,
Tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein.

If tha's met wi' a hansomer chap,
Aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way;
But tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,—
If tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay.

But tha knows 'at for monny a wick
Aw've been savin mi brass to get wed;
An aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pick
Aght some chairs an a table an bed.

Aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart;
An tha seemed to be fain to ha booath;
But if its thi wish we should part,
To beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath.

An th' warst wish aw wish even yet,—
Is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;—
Gooid neet, Matty lass, nivver freeat,
Tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean."

"Nah, Jimmy lad, try to be cooil,—
Mi excuse tha may think is a funny en;
Aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil,
But thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion."
Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat,
Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet,
Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght
Wi' cold an wind an weet.
Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in
A little cosy bed,
An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin,
An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize,
Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod,
It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies
A New Year's gift throo God.
An happiness nah fills her heart,
'At wor wi' sorrow cleft;
Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part,
Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.
A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,—bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,—
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,—
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat,—
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm;—
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,—
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;
Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,
To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,
An monny a tear shoo shed;
For shoo'd once had a darlin lad
But he, alas! wor dead.
This little waif seemed sent to cheer,
An fill her darlin's place;
An to her heart shoo prest him near,
An kissed his little face.

Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat,
Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet,
Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght
Wi' cold an wind an weet.
Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in
A little cosy bed,
An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin,
An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize,
Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod,
It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies
A New Year's gift throo God.
An happiness nah fills her heart,
'At wor wi' sorrow cleft;
Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part,
Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.

Uncle Ben.

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben
As ivver lived i'th' fowd:
He made a fortun for hissen,
An lived on't when he'r owd.
His yed wor like a snow drift,
An his face wor red an breet,
An his heart wor like a feather,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas
He'd worn sin aw wor bred;
An th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas,
An th' same hat for his yed;
His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing
Throo braik o' day till neet;
His conscience nivver felt a sting,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wod'nt swap his humble state
Wi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land;
He nivver wanted silver plate,
Nor owt 'at's rich an grand;
He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk
Drawn raand him ov a neet,
But he slept noa war for th' want o' that,
For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.

Owd fowk called him "awr Benny,"
Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"—
An th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad,"
Or what best pleased thersen.
A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face
When he heeard ther patterin feet,
For he loved to laik wi th' little bairns
An he did the thing 'at's reet.

He nivver turned poor fowk away
Uncared for throo his door;
He ne'er forgate ther wor a day
When he hissen wor poor;
An monny a face has turned to Heaven,
All glistenin wi' weet,
An prayed for blessins on owd Ben,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He knew his lease wor ommost spent,
He'd sooin be called away;
Yet he wor happy an content,
An waited th' comin day.
But one dark neet he shut his e'en,
An slept soa calm an sweet,
When mornin coom, th' world held one less,
'At did the thing 'at's reet.

A Hawporth.

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam?
What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb?
Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face;
Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place.
What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name;
Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame.
Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice,
Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice.
Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can;
Thear,—tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.

He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat,
An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what;
But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:—
A'a!—its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.

Th' Better Part.

A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait,
Wi' body bent, an snowy pate,
Aw met one day;—
An daan o'th' rooad side grassy banks
He sat to rest his weary shanks;
An aw, to while away mi time,
O'th' neighbourin hillock did recline,
An bade "gooid day."

Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true,
If in your heart yo nivver rue
Th' time 'at's past?
Does envy nivver fill yor breast
When passin fowk wi' riches blest?
An do yo nivver think it wrang
At yo should have to trudge along,
Soa poor to th' last?"

"Young man," he sed, "aw envy nooan;
But ther are times aw pity some,
Wi' all mi heart;
To see what trubbl'd lives they spend,
What cares upon their hands depend;
Then aw in thowtfulness declare
'At 'little cattle little care'
Is th' better part.

Gold is a burden hard to carry,
An tho' Dame Fortun has been chary
O' gifts to me;
Yet still aw strive to feel content,
An think what is, for th' best is meant;
An th' mooast ov all aw strive for here,
Is still to keep mi conscience clear,
From dark spots free.

An while some tax ther brains to find
What they'll be foorced to leeav behind,
When th' time shall come;
Aw try bi honest word an deed,
To get what little here aw need,
An live i' hopes at last to say,
When breeath gooas flickerin away,
'Aw'm gooin hooam.'"

Aw gave his hand a hearty shake,
It seem'd as tho' the words he spake
Sank i' mi heart:
Aw walk'd away a wiser man,
Detarmined aw wod try his plan
I' hopes at last 'at aw might be
As weel assured ov Heaven as he;
That's th' better part.

Th' Lesser Evil.

Young Harry wor a single chap,
An wod have lots o' tin,
An monny a lass had set her cap,
This temptin prize to win.
But Harry didn't want a wife,
He'd rayther far be free;
An soa escape all care an strife
'At wedded couples see.
But when at last his uncle deed,
An left him all his brass,
'Twor on condition he should wed,
Some honest Yorksher lass.
Soa all his dreamin day an neet
Abaat what sprees he'd have;
He had to bury aght o'th' seet,
Deep in his uncle's grave.
To tak a wife at once, he thowt
Wor th' wisest thing to do,
Soa he lukt raand until he browt
His choice daan between two.
One wor a big, fine, strappin lass,
Her name wor Sarah Ann,
Her height an weight, few could surpass,
Shoo'r fit for onny man.
An t'other wor a little sprite,
Wi' lots o' bonny ways,
An little funny antics, like
A kitten when it plays.
An which to tak he could'nt tell,
He rayther liked 'em booath;
But if he could ha pleased hissen,
To wed one he'd be looath.
A wife he thowt an evil thing,
An sewer to prove a pest;
Soa after sometime studyin
He thowt th' least wod be th' best.
They sooin wor wed, an then he faand
He'd quite enuff to do,
For A'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand,
An tongue enuff for two.
An if he went aght neet or day,
His wife shoo went as weel;
He gat noa chonce to goa astray;—
Shoo kept him true as steel.
His face grew white, his heead grew bald,
His clooas hung on his rig,
He grew like one 'at's getten stall'd,
Ov this world's whirligig.
One day, he muttered to hissen,
"If aw've pickt th' lesser evil,
Th' poor chap 'at tackles Sarah Ann,
Will wish he'd wed the D—-l."

Take Heart!

Roughest roads, we often find,
Lead us on to th' nicest places;
Kindest hearts oft hide behind
Some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars whose colors breetest are,
Oft delight awr wond'ring seet;
But ther's others, humbler far,
Smell a thaasand times as sweet.

Burds o' monny color'd feather,
Please us as they skim along,
But ther charms all put together,
Connot equal th' skylark's song.

Bonny women—angels seemin,—
Set awr hearts an brains o' fire;
But its net ther beauties; beamin,
Its ther gooidness we admire.

Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle,
Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray;
He best proves his might an' mettle,
Who remains to win the day.

Monkey's an vain magpies chatter,
But it doesn't prove 'em wise;
An it's net wi noise an clatter,
Men o' sense expect to rise.

'Tis'nt them 'at promise freely,
Are mooast ready to fulfill;
An 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely
'At are last at top o'th' hill.

Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment,
Gaudy flaars awr e'en beguile;
Women may be loved for raiment,
Show may blind us for a while;

But we sooin grow discontented,
An for solid worth we sigh,
An we leearn to prize the jewel,
Tho' it's hidden from the eye.

Him 'at thinks to gether diamonds
As he walks along his rooad,
Nivver need be tired wi' huggin,
For he'll have a little looad.

Owt 'at's worth a body's winnin
Mun be toiled for long an hard;
An tho' th' struggle may be pinnin,
Perseverance wins reward.

Earnest thowt, an constant strivin,
Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet;
Tho' we may be late arrivin,
Yet at last we'st come in reet.

He who WILL succeed, he MUST,
When he's bid false hopes farewell,
If he firmly fix his trust
In his God, and in hissel.

They all do it.

They're all buildin nests for thersen,
One bi one they goa fleetin away;
A suitable mate comes,—an then,
I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay.
Well,—it's folly for th' old en's to freeat,
Tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,—
An we sigh,—let a tear drop,—an yet,
We bless 'em, an give 'em a start.

They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt,
They've trubbles an trials to face;
I'th' futer they luk an see nowt
'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race.
Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think
Sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them,
They walk on uncertainty's brink,
An they see in each teardrop a gem.

Happy dreams 'at they had long ago,
Too sweet to believe—-could be true,
Are realized nah, for they know
Th' world's pleasures wor made for them two.
We know 'at it's all a mistak,
An we pity, an yet we can pray,
'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back
Wi' regret to that sweet weddin day.

God bless 'em! may happiness dwell,
I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot;
An if in a palace,—well,—well,—
Shall ther young love be ever forgot.
Nay,—nay,—tho' old Time runs his plough,
O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove;
May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow,
Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.

Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en!
Bless th' husband, who does weel his part;
Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been,
The joy an the pride ov ther heart.
May health an prosperity sit
At ther table soa long as they live!
An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ,
For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.

To Let.

Aw live in a snug little cot,
An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght 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 lukkin chap donned i' black,
Coom an luk'd at it inside an aght
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 t'others to laik.

Ther wor fires i' ivvery range,
They nivver let th' harston get cooiled,
Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change,
An ivverything 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' furnitur 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 ivvery corner aw'm sure,
Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.

One day when a cab drove to th' gate,
Th' new tenant stept aght, 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, it's 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 aw'd finished mi wark,
An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire,
A chap rushes in aght '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 aw'd a visit throo Ike,
But aw shut up his maath when aw sed,
"Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."

Ther's papers i'th' 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 ne'er do a hawpoth for me.

But aw let 'em do just as they pleease,
Aw'm 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, nivver forget,
For a wiser one has not been sed,
Be detarmined to rise aght o' debt
Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed.

Lost Love.

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass,
Her e'en as black as sloas;
Her hair a flyin thunner claad,
Her cheeks a blowin rooas.
Her smile coom like a sunny gleam
Her cherry lips to curl;
Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream
'At flowed throo 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 could'nt ax her to be mine,
Wi' poverty at th' door:
Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine
Wi' love for one so poor;
*/ 92 */
But nah ther's summat i' mi breast,
Tells me aw miss'd mi way:
An lost that lass I loved the 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 hooam agean
For fear mi heart wod 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 tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad,
An tho' hope's star is set;
To know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'd
Wod mak me happy yet.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c.

Drink.

When yo see a chap covered wi' rags,
An hardly a shoe to his fooit,
Gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags,
Wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit;
An he tells yo he's aght ov a job,
An he feels wellny likely to sink,—
An he hasn't a coin in his fob,
Yo may guess what he's seekin—it's Drink.

If a woman yo meet, poorly dressed,
Untidy, an spoortin black e'en;
Wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast,
Neglected an shame-to-be-seen;
If yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true,
What's th' cause of her trouble? Aw think,
Yo'll find her misfortuns are due
To that warst o' all enemies,—Drink.

Ax th' wretches convicted o' crime,
What caused 'em to plunge into sin,
An they'll say ommost ivvery time,
It's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin.
Even th' gallus, if it could but tell
Ov its victims dropt ovver life's brink;
It wod add a sad lot moor to swell
The list ov those lost throo strong Drink.

Yet daily we thowtlessly pass,
The hell-traps 'at stand like a curse;
Bedizened wi' glitter an glass,
To mak paupers, an likely do worse.
Some say 'at th' millenium's near,
But they're reckonin wrang aw should think,
When they fancy the King will appear,
In a world soa besotted wi' Drink.

Duffin Johnny. (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 an bristlin,
It railly wor a spicy crop;
Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war,
He long'd for battles' clatter,
He grieved to think noa foeman dar
To cross that 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 britches 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 sed "Oh dear!"
Becoss a beetle past him;
But still he wor unknown to fear,
He'd tell yo if yo asked him.
He could'nt 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 ivvery 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 ivvery fardin;
Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass,
At Tate's berry garden."

"Aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant 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 cloise 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 things 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 sed,
"Aw fancied aw could spy thi,
Aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid,
Aw did it but to try 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.'"

Plenty o' Brass.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
It's grand to be able to spend
A trifle sometimes on a glass
For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend.
To be able to bury yor neive
Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd,
An, 'baght pinchin, be able to save
A wee bit for th' time when yo're owd.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
To be able to set daan yor fooit
Withaat ivver thinkin—bi'th' mass!
'At yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit.
To be able to walk along th' street,
An stand at shop windows to stare,
An net ha to beat a retreat
If yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
To be able to goa hooam at neet,
An sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass,
An want nawther foir nor leet.
To tak th' childer a paper o' spice,
Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall;
Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice
For yor friends, if they happen to call.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
Then th' parsons'll know where yo live;
If yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass,
An call where fowk's summat to give.
Yo may have a trifle o' sense,
An yo may be booath upright an trew,
But that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expense
Ov a whole or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
An to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard,
This world seems as smooth as a glass,
An ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad;
But him 'at's as poor as a maase,
Or, happen, a little i' debt,
He mun point his nooas up to th' big haase,
An be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink!
But dooan't let it harden yor heart:
Yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think
An try to do gooid wi' a part!
An then, as yo're totterin' daan,
An th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass,
Yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan
Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.

The New Year's Resolve.

Says Dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed,
For th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life,
An aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed,
If aw knew who to get for a wife.

Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass,
For aw've nawther to booast on misel;
What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass,
An ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.

To be single is all weel enuff nah an then,
But it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes;
For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men;
They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.

An aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done,
Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit;
An th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run,
An mi back warks as if it 'ud split.

Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best;
Soa one day aw bethowt me to try,
But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast,
Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.

Aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me!
Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think;
Aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see,
An saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.

But a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare
Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had;
For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare,
An thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad.

Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell,
Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined,
Talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel,
Afoor shoo can alter her mind."

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime,
To put sich stooaries into ryhme,
But yet, contentedly aw chime
Mi simple ditty:
An if it's all a waste o' time,
The moor's the pity.

———-

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,
Wi' reekin heead and weary feet,
A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet;
He made mi start;
But pluckin up, aw did him greet
Wi' beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be,
An th' latest fashion aw could see,
But yet they hung soa dawderly,
Like suits i' shops;
Bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten three
Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rayther late
For one 'at's dress'd i' sich a state,
Across this Slack to mak ther gate:
Is ther some pairty?
Or does ta allus dress that rate—
Black duds o'th' wairty?"

He twisted raand as if to see
What sooart o' covy aw could be,
An grinned wi' sich a maath at me,
It threw me sick!
"Lor saves!" aw cried, "an is it thee
'At's call'd owd Nick?"

But when aw luk'd up into th' place,
Whear yo'd expect to find a face;
A awful craytur met mi gaze,
It took mi puff:
"Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass,
Aw've seen enuff!"

Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear,
He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear,
An soa aw stop't a bit to hear
What things he'd ax;
But as he spake his teeth rang clear,
Like knick-a-nacks.

"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' thee
Net knowin sich a chap as me;
For oft when tha's been on a spree,
Aw've been thear too;
But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee,
Tha's just edged throo.

Mi name is Deeath—tha needn't start,
An put thi hand upon thi heart,
For tha may see 'at aw've noa dart
Wi' which to strike;
Let's sit an tawk afoor we part,
O'th edge o'th dyke."

"Nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad,
For Bobby Burns tells me tha had
A scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, Gad!
Tha worn't dress'd
I' fine black clooath; tha wore a plad
Across thi breast!"

"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat
To find me wanderin abaght;
But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat
A job to do;
Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat,
Mi arrows too."

"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,
'At fowk noa moor will ha to dee?"
"Noa, hark a minnit an tha'll see
When th' truth aw tell!
Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,
Thev kill thersel.

They do it too at sich a rate
Wol mi owd system's aght o' date;
What we call folly, they call fate;
An all ther pleasur
Is ha to bring ther life's estate
To th' shortest measur.

They waste ther time, an waste ther gains,
O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains,
Throo morn to neet they keep ther brains,
For ivver swimmin,
An if a bit o' sense remains,
It's fun i'th wimmen.

Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft,
Nor yet misen wi' scythe or shaft,
E'er made as monny deead or daft,
As Gin an Rum,
An if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft
At me, bi gum!

But if they thus goa on to swill,
They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill,
For give a druffen chap his fill,
An sooin off pops he;
An teetotal fowk moor surely still,
Will dee wi' th' dropsy.

It's a queer thing 'at sich a nation
Can't use a bit o' moderation;
But one lot rush to ther damnation
Throo love o'th' bottle:
Wol others think to win salvation
Wi' bein teetotal."

Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead,
"Tak my advice, young chap," he sed,
"Let liquors be, sup ale asteead,
An tha'll be better,
An dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard
Like a deead letter."

"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say,
Yo come to fotch us chaps away!
But this seems strange, soa tell me pray,
Ha wor't yo coom?
Wor it to tell us keep away,
Yo hav'nt room?"

"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar
But tha'll find spirits worse bi far
Sarved aght i' monny a public bar,
'At's thowt quite lawful;
Nor what tha'll find i'th' places parsons call soa awful."

"Gooid bye!" he sed, an off he shot,
Leavin behind him sich a lot
O' smook, as blue as it wor hot!
It set me stewin!
Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot
Ov us own brewin.

————-

If when yo've read this stooary throo,
Yo daat if it's exactly true,
Yo'll nobbut do as others do,
Yo may depend on't.
Blow me! aw ommost daat it too,
So thear's an end on't.

What Wor it?

What wor it made me love thee, lass?
Aw connot tell;
Aw know it worn't for thi brass;—
Tho' poor misel
Aw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt,
An what aw had wor next to nowt.

Aw didn't love thi 'coss thi face
Wor fair to see:
For tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place,
An as for me,
They called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop,"
An sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop.

Aw used to read i' Fairy books
Ov e'en soa breet,
Ov gowden hair, angelic looks,
An smiles soa sweet;
Aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown,
Aw'd claim some lovely Fairy for mi own.

An weel aw recollect that neet,—
'Twor th' furst o'th' year,
Aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet,
An aw'd a fear
Lest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat,
An be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat.

What fun they made, when we went in;—
They cried, "Yo're catched!"
An then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din
"They're fairly matched,
An beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say,
An they've booath been gooid childer, onyway."

An then aw saw a little tear,
Unbidden flow,
That settled it!—for then an thear
Aw seemed to know,
'At we wor meant to share each others lot,
An Fancy's Fairies all could goa to pot.

Full thirty years have rolled away,
Sin that rough time;
What won mi love aw connot say,
But this is mine,
To know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee,
But pray, whativver made thee fancy me?

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig,
Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say;
An monny a mile he had to trig
One sweltin' summer day;
But Billy didn't care a fig,
He sed he'd mak it pay;
He knew it wor a bargain,
An he cared net who said nay.

He browt it hooam to Ploo Croft loin,
But what wor his surprise
To find all th' neighbors standing aght,
We oppen maaths an eyes;
"By gow!" sed Billy, to hissen,
"This pig must be a prize!"
An th' wimmen cried, "Gooid gracious fowk
But isn't it a size?"

Then th' chaps sed, "Billy, where's ta been?
Whativver has ta browt?
That surely isn't crayture, lad,
Aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt?
It luks moor like a donkey,
Does ta think 'at it con rawt?"
But Billy crack'd his carter's whip.
An answered 'em wi' nowt.

An reight enuff it wor a pig,
If all they say is true,
Its length wor five foot eight or nine,
Its height wor four foot two;
An when it coom to th' pig hoil door,
He couldn't get it throo,
Unless it went daan ov its knees,
An that it wodn't do.

Then Billy's mother coom to help,
An hit it wi' a mop;
But thear it wor, an thear it seem'd
Detarmined it 'ud stop;
But all at once it gave a grunt,
An oppen'd sich a shop;
An finding aght 'at it wor lick'd,
It laup'd cleean ovver th' top.

His mother then shoo shook her heead,
An pool'd a woeful face;
"William," shoo sed, "tha should'nt bring
Sich things as theas to th' place.
Aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink
Thi mother i' disgrace;
But if tha buys sich things as thease
Aw'm feared it will be th' case!"

"Nah, mother, nivver freat," sed Bill,
"Its one aw'm gooin to feed,
Its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know,
But that's becoss o'th' breed;
If its a trifle long i'th' grooin,
Why hang it! nivver heed!
Aw know its net a beauty,
But its cheap, it is, indeed!"

"Well time 'ul try," his mother sed,—
An time at last did try;
For nivver sich a hungry beeast
Had been fed in a sty.
"What's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, Billy!"
Wor th' neighbors' daily cry;
"Aw connot tell yo yet," sed Bill,
"Aw'll weigh it bye an bye."

An hard poor Billy persevered,
But all to noa avail,
It swallow'd all th' mait it could get,
An wod ha swallow'd th' pail;
But Billy tuk gooid care to stand
O'th' tother side o'th' rail;
But fat it didn't gain as mich
As what 'ud greeas its tail.

Pack after pack o' mail he bowt,
Until he'd bowt fourteen;
But net a bit o' difference
I'th' pig wor to be seen:
Its legs an snowt wor just as long
As ivver they had been;
Poor Billy caanted rib bi rib
An heaved a sigh between.

One day he mix'd a double feed,
An put it into th' troff;
"Tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed,
"Aw'll awther stawl thee off,
Or else aw'll brust thi hide—that is
Unless 'at its to toff!"
An then he left it wol he went
His mucky clooas to doff.

It worn't long befoor he coom
To see hah matters stood;
He luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor,
Five simple bits o' wood,
As cleean scraped aght as if it had
Ne'er held a bit o' food;
"Tha slotch!" sed Bill, "aw do believe
Tha'd ait me if tha could."

Next day he browt a butcher,
For his patience had been tried,
An wi a varry deeal to do,
Its legs wi' rooap they tied;
An then his shinin knife he drew
An stuck it in its side—
It mud ha been a crockadile,
Bi th' thickness ov its hide.

But blooid began to flow, an then
Its long legg'd race wor run;
They scalded, scraped, an hung it up,
An when it all wor done,
Fowk coom to guess what weight it wor,
An monny a bit o' fun
They had, for Billy's mother sed,
"It ought to weigh a ton."

Billy wor walkin up an daan,
Dooin nowt but fume an fidge!
He luk'd at th' pig—then daan he set,
I'th nook o'th' window ledge,
He saw th' back booan wor stickin aght,
Like th' thin end ov a wedge;
It luk'd like an owd blanket
Hung ovver th' winterhedge.

His mother rooar'd an th' wimmen sigh'd,
But th' chaps did nowt but laff;
Poor Billy he could hardly bide,
To sit an hear ther chaff—
Then up he jumped, an off he run,
But whear fowk nivver knew;
An what wor th' war'st, when mornin coom,
Th' deead pig had mizzled too.

Th' chaps wander'd th' country far an near,
Until they stall'd thersen;
But nawther Billy nor his pig
Coom hooam agean sin then;
But oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet,
Near Shibden's ruined mill,
The gooast o' Billy an his pig
May be seen runnin still.

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.