I’ve been e lots o’ feeds, me lads,
An hed some rare tuck-aahts;
Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs,
Minch pies an’ thumping taahts;
But I wir’d in an reight anall,
An’ supp’d when I wor dry,
Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I hardly knew what ail’d me, lads,
I felt so fearful praad;
Me ears prick’d up, me collar raise,
Taards a hauf-a-yard;
Me chest stood aaht, me charley in,
Like horns stuck aaht me tie;
Fer I dined wi a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I offan think o’ t’feed, me lads,
When t’ gentleman I meet;
Bud nauther on us speiks a word
Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can mesel,
I feel so fearful shy;
Fer I ate a deal o’ t’roasted gooise,
And warmed his giblet pie.
Ode to Wedlock!
Oh! Hymen, god of Wedlock! thou
Companion of the lover’s vow,
Thy subjects they are fearful;
If thou could nobbut see the strife,
There is sometimes ’tween man and wife,
I think thou’d be more careful.
Oft has thou bound in durance vile,
De fearful frown, and cheerful smile,
And doubtless thought it famous;
When thou the mind ov fancy sweet,
Has knit the knot so nice and neat
For some blessed ignoramous.
What nature, truth, and reason too,
Has oft declared would never do,
Thou’rt fool enough to do it;
Thou’s bound for better and for worse,
Life’s greatest blessing with a curse,
And both were made to rue it.
But luve is blind, and oft deceived,
If adage old can be believed,
And suffers much abuses;
Or never could such matches be,
O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee,
So thou has thy excuses.
Com Geas a Wag o’ thee Paw.
[T’west Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches it fine art line, bud t’musick aw think licks t’lump, especially abaht Haworth an’ Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorkshire in his toime. It is said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all tother Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an’ that willant due up at London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood; there’s oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an’ oud Jim Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersmass toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr warm e bed. Bud there’s another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when there’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals;—’an t’ best ale an’ crotchets mixt, that’s the time fer musick.]