David Lewis
Ya summer day when I were mowin',
When flooers of monny soorts were growin',
Which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin',
As I advance,
A frog I cut widout my knowin'—
A sad mischance.
Poor luckless frog, why com thoo here?
Thoo sure were destitute o' fear;
Some other way could thoo nut steer
To shun the grass?
For noo that life, which all hod dear,
Is gean, alas!
Hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soond
With which the mowers strip the groond,
Then fled away wi' nimble boond,
Thoo'd kept thy state:
But I, unknawin', gav a wound,
Which browt thy fate.
Sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn,
Wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn,
And golden rings round baith ees drawn,
All gay an' blithe,
Thoo lowpt(1) the fields like onny fawn,
But met the scythe.
Frae dikes where winter watters steead(2)
Thoo com unto the dewy mead,
Regardless of the cattle's treead,
Wi' pantin' breeath,
For to restore thy freezin' bleead,
But met wi' deeath.
A Frenchman early seekin' prog,(3)
Will oftentimes ransack the bog,
To finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog,
To give relief;
But I prefer a leg of hog,
Or roond o' beef.
But liker far to the poor frog,
I's wanderin' through the world for prog,
Where deeath gies monny a yan a jog,
An' cuts them doon;
An' though I think misen incog,
That way I's boun.
Time whets his scythe and shakes his glass,
And though I know all flesh be grass,
Like monny mair I play the ass,
Don't seem to know;
But here wad sometime langer pass,
Befoor I go.
Ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers,
Of cottage mean, or gilded booers,
Possessed of attractive pooers,
Ye all mun gang
Like frogs in meadows fed by shooers,
Ere owt be lang.
Though we to stately plants be grown,
He easily can mow us doon;
It may be late, or may be soon,
His scythe we feel;
Or is it fittin' to be known?
Therefore fareweel.
1. Leaped. 2. Stood. 3. Food.
Sheffield Cutler's Song (1887)
Abel Bywater
Coom all you cutlin' heroes, where'ersome'er you be,
All you what works at flat-backs,(1) coom listen unto me;
A basketful for a shillin',
To mak 'em we are willin',
Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin',
Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin'.
A baskitful o' flat-backs, I'm sure we'll mak, or more,
To ger(2) reight into t' gallery, wheer we can rant an' roar,
Throw flat-backs, stones an' sticks,
Red herrin's, bones an' bricks,
If they don't play "Nancy's fancy," or onny tune we fix,
We'll do the best at e'er we can to break some o' their necks.
Hey! Jont, lad, where art ta waddlin' to?
Does ta work at flat-backs yit, as tha's been used to do?
Ha! coom, an' tha' s go wi' me,
An' a sample I will gie thee,
It's one at I've just forged upon Geoffry's bran-new stiddy.(3)
Look at it well, it does excel all t' flat-backs i' aar smithy.
Let's send for a pitcher o' ale, lad, for I'm gerrin' varry droy,
I'm ommost chok'd wi' smithy sleck,(4) the wind it is so hoigh.
Gie Rafe an' Jer a drop,
They sen(5) they cannot stop,
They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop,
They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop.
Here's Steem at lives at Heeley, he'll soon be here, I knaw,
He's larnt a new maccaroni step, the best you iver saw;
He has it so complete,
He troies up ivery street,
An' ommost breaks all t' pavors(6) wi' swattin'(7) daan his feet.
An' Anak troies to beat him, wheniver they doon(8) meet.
We'll raise a tail by Sunda, Steem; I knaw who's one to sell,
We'll tee a hammer heead at t' end to mak it balance well.
It's a reight new Lunnon tail,
We'll wear it kale for kale,(9)
Aar Anak browt it wi' him, that neet he coom by t' mail.
We'll drink success unto it—hey! Tout, lad, teem(10) aat t' ale.
1 Knives. 2 Get. 3. Anvil. 4. Dust. 5. Say. 6. Paving Stones.
7. Hammering. 8. Do. 9. Turn and about. 10. Pour.
Address to Poverty
Anonymous
Scoolin' maid o' iron broo,
Thy sarvant will address thee noo,
For thoo invites the freedom
By drivin' off my former friends,
To leak to their awn private ends,
Just when I chanc'd to need 'em.
I've had thy company ower lang,
Ill-lookin' wean,(1) thoo must be wrang,
Thus to cut short my jerkin.
I ken thee weel, I knaw thy ways,
Thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes,
An' foorc'd me to hard workin'.
To gain o' thee a yal(2) day's march
I straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch.
For all I still straave faster,
Thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop,
By some slain corn, or failin' crop,
Or ivery foul disaster.
If I my maand may freely speak,
I really dunnot like thy leak,
Whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on;
Thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd,
A fiend afoore, a freight behinnd,
An' foul as Mother Shipton.
Folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth,
Thoo has been wi' me frae my youth,
An' gien me monny a thumper;
Bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight,
Fast fallin' frae a fearful height,
A doonreet Milton plumper.
Sud plenty frae her copious horn,
Teem(1) oot to me good crops o' corn,
An' prosper weel my cattle,
An' send a single thoosand pund,
'T wad bring all things completely roond,
An' I wad gie thee battle.
Noo, Poverty, ya thing I beg,
Like a poor man withoot a leg,
Sea, prethee, don't deceive me;
I knaw it's i' thy power to grant
The laatle favour at I want
At thoo wad gang an' leave me.
1. Child. 2. Whole.
The Collingham Ghost
Anonymous
I'll tell ye aboot the Collingham ghost,
An' a rare awd ghost was he;
For he could laugh, an' he could talk,
An' run, an' jump, an' flee.
He went aboot hither an' thither,
An' freeten'd some out o' their wits,
He freeten'd the parson as weel as the clerk,
An' lots beside them into fits.
The poor awd man wha teak the toll
At Collingham bar for monny a year,
He dursn't coom out to oppen his yat(2)
For fear the ghost sud be near.
He teak to his bed an' there he laid,
For monny a neet an' day;
His yat was awlus wide oppen thrown,
An' nean iver stopp'd to pay.
Awd Jerry wha kept the public hoose,
An' sell'd good yal to all,
Curs'd the ghost wi' hearty good will,
For neabody stopp'd to call.
It made sike a noise all roond aboot,
That folks com far to see;
Some said it was a dreadful thing,
An' sum said 't was a lee.
Gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns,
Thinkin' 't was some comical beast;
An' they wad eyther kill him or catch him,
Or drive him awa at least.
Sea into Lady wood right they went
Ya beautiful meenleet neet;
A lot o' great men an' a lot o' rough dogs,
Enew(3) a poor ghost to eat.
They waited lang, the ghost didn't come,
They began to laugh an' rail,
"If he coom oat of his den," says yan,
"We'll clap a bit o' saut of his tail."
"Nay, he knows better than turn oot,
When we are here to watch him,
He'd git a bullet through his lug,
Or Mungo there wad catch him."
When close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter
The ghost went whirrin' up,
An' owerr the woods he laughed an' shouted,
"Bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!"
The gamkeepers all tummled doon,
Their hair thrast off their hat,
They gaped an' grean'd(4) an' roll'd aboot,
An' their hearts went pit-a-pat.
Their feaces were white as onny clout,
An' they said niver a word,
T'hey couldn't tell what the ghost was like,
Whether 'twas a beast or a bird.
They stay'd nea langer i' t' wood that neet,
Poor men were niver dafter,
They ran awa hame as fast as they could,
An' their dogs ran yelping after.
The parson then, a larned man,
Said he wad conjure the ghost;
He was sure it was nea wandrin' beast,
But a spirit that was lost.
All languages this parson knew
That onny man can chat in,
The Ebrew, Greek, an' Irish too,
As weel as Dutch an' Latin.
O! he could talk an' read an' preach,
Few men knew mair or better,
An' nearly all the bukes he read
Were printed in black letter.
He read a neet, he read a day,
fo mak him fit for his wark,
An' when he thowt he was quite up,
He sent for the awd clerk.
The clerk was quickly by his side,
He took but little fettlin',
An' awa they went wi' right good will
To gie the ghost a settlin'.
Aye off they set wi' all their might,
Nor stopp'd at thin or thick,
The parson wi' his sark(5) an' buke,
The clerk wi' a thick stick.
At last by t' side o' t' bank they stopp'd,
Where Wharfe runs murmurin' clear,
A beautiful river breet an' fine,
As onny in wide Yorkshire.
The parson then began to read,
An' read full loud an' lang,
The rabbits they ran in an' oot,
An' wonder'd what was wrang.
The ghost was listnin' in a hole,
An' oat he bang'd at last,
The fluttrin' o' his mighty wings,
Was like a whirlwind blast.
He laughed 'an shooted as he flew,
Until the wild woods rang;
His who-who-whoop was niver heard
Sea load an' clear an' strang.
The parson he fell backwards ower
Into a bush o' whins,
An' lost his buke, an' rave(6) his sark,(7)
An' prick'd his hands an' shins.
The clerk he tried to run awa,
But tumml'd ower his stick,
An' there he made a nasty smell
While he did yell an' fick.(8)
An' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd
That here I darn't tell,
For if I did, folks wad declare
I was as ill as hissel.
For eighteen months an' mair he stay'd,
An' just did as he thowt ;
For lord nor duke, parson nor clerk,
He fear'd, nor cared nowt.
Efter that time he went awa,
Just when it pleas'd hissel;
But what he was, or whar he com fra,
Nea mortal man can tell.
1. Pour. 2. Gate. 3. Enough. 4. Groaned.
5. Surplice. 6. Tore. 7. Surplice. 8. Kick.