“Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife,
“Bud aw feel rather hurt;
What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht,
An finds t’oud chap a shirt.”
Sho did an all, and stockins too;
An tears stud in her e’e;
An in her face the stranger saw
Real Yorkshire sympathee.
Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh,
When he hed heard his tale,
An spak o’ some oud trouses,
At hung at chamer rail;
Then aht at door ahr Harry runs,
An back agean he shogs,
He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair
O’ my oud iron clogs.
It must be feearful coud ta neet,
Fer fouk ats aht at door;
Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all,
At’s thrown at chamer floor:
And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate,
At’s paused so up an dahn;
It will be better ner his own,
Tho’ its withaht a craan.”
So when we’d geen him what we cud,
(In fact afford to give,)
We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,
O’t poor oud fugitive;
He thank’d us ower an ower agean
And often he did pray,
At barns mud nivver be like him;
Then travelled on his way.
Sall at Bog.
Me love is like the pashan dock,
That grows it summer fog;
And tho’ sho’s but a country lass,
I like my Sall at Bog.
I walk’d her aht up Rivock End,
And dahn a bonny dale,
Whear golden balls an kahslips grow,
An butter cups do smell.
We sat us dahn at top o’t grass,
Cloyce to a runnin brook,
An harkend watter wegtails sing
Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.
Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout
Az t’sun shane in her een,
Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar
At ivver aw hed seen.
’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love,
Beneath t’oud hazel tree;
How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog,
How dearly sho liked me.