Coom, stop at yam to-neet Bob
Florence Tweddell
"Coom, stop at yam(1) to-neet, Bob,
Dean't gan oot onnywhere:
Thoo gets thisel t' leeast vex'd, lad,
When thou sits i' t' awd airm-chair.
"There's Keat an' Dick beath want thee
To stop an' tell a teale:
Tak little Keatie o' thy knee,
An' Dick 'll sit on t' steal.
"Let's have a happy neet, Bob,
Tell all t' teales thoo can tell;
For givin' pleeasure to the bairns
Will dea thee good thisel.
"I knaw it's sea wi' me, Bob,
For oft when I've been sad,
I've laik'd an' laugh'd wi' them, mon,
Untel my heart's felt glad.
"An' sing that laatle sang, Bob,
Thoo used to sing to me,
When oft we sat at t' river saade,
Under t' awd willow tree.
"What happy taames them was, Bob,
Thoo niver left me then
To gan to t' yal-hoose neet be neet
Amang all t' drunken men.
"I does my best for thoo, Bob,
An' thoo sud dea t' seame for me:
Just think what things thoo promised me
Asaade t' awd willow tree!"
"I prithee say nea mair, lass,
I see I ain't dean reet;
I'll think of all thoo's said to me,
An' stop at yam to-neet."
"I'll try to lead a better life-
I will, an' that thoo'll see!
Fra this taame fo'th I'll spend my neets
At yam, wi' t' bairns an' thee!"
1. Home.
Ode to t' Mooin
J. H. Eccles (1824-1883)
I like to see thy quaint owd face
Lewk softly daan on me,
E'en though I ne'er could find thy nose
Nor catch thy watchful ee.
Full monny times I've seen thee rise,
When busy day were done,
When daan behint t' owd maantain tops
Had passed t' breet evenin' sun.
I like to see thee when sweet spring
Cooms back to hill an' vale;
When odours rise through t' hawthorn bush,
An' float on t' evenin' gale.
When lovers walk on t' primrose benks,
An' whisper soft an' low;
Dreamin' just same as me an' t' wife
Did monny years ago.
I like to see thee when t' June rose
Is wet wi' fallin' dew,
When t' nightingale maks t' owd woods ring
Wi' music fresh an' new
When fairies dance on t' top o' t' flaars
An' roam through t' pleasant dells,
Like monarchs i' their marble halls,
I' t' lilies' virgin bells.
I like to see thee when t' ripe corn
Is wavin' to an' fro;
When t' squirril goes a-seekin' nuts
An' jumps thro' bough to bough.
When t' purple heather covers t' hills,
An' t' hunters, tired and worn,
Back through the fairy-haunted glens
Unto their homes return.
I like to see thee when all raand
Is white wi' drivven snow,
When t' streams are stopp'd by owd Jack Frost
An' foaks slip as they go.
I like to see thee all t' year raand,
When t' sky is fair an' breet,
An' allus hail wi' fond delight
The noble queen o' t' neet.
I used to think at I could reach
Up to thy face wi' ease,
If I had but a big long stick;
For tha were but green cheese.
But naa I've got far different thowts,
An' learnt to understand
At tha art one o' t' wondrous works
Formed by t' gert Maker's hand.
Aunt Nancy
J. H. Eccles
Aunt Nancy's one o' t' savin' sort,
At niver lets t' chonce pass;
Yet wouldn't do owt mean or low
For t' sake o' gettin' t' brass.
Her home's as clean as need be seen,
Whoiver may go in;
An' as for Nancy, dear-a-me!
Shoo's like a new-made pin.
Shoo's full o' thrift an' full o' sense,
An' full o' love beside;
Shoo rubs an' scrubs thro' morn to neet
An' maks t' owd haase her pride.
Her husband, when his wark is doon,
Sits daan i' t' owd arm chair ;
Forgets his troubles as he owt,
An' loises all his care.
Wi' pipe an' book i' t' chimley nook
Time flies on noiseless wing;
Shoo sits an' knits wi' pleasant face,
He's happy as a king.
Wi' tattlin' folks shoo's niver seen
I' alley, loin(1) or street,
But goes her way wi' modest step,
Exact an' clean an' neat.
Her neighbours soomtimes watch her aat,
An' say shoo's praad an' stiff;
But all their gossip cooms to nowt,
Aunt Nancy's reight enif.
Wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad
To some poor lonely elf;
To ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way
At's poorer nor(2) herself.
Shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives,
Kind, gentle-hearted sowl;
I' charity her hands find wark,
Shoo's good alike to all.
He niver tells her what he thinks,
Nor flatters nor reproves;
His life is baand wi' gowlden bands
To t' woman at he loves.
God bless her, shoo's a dimond breet,
Both good i' mind an' heart;
An angel spreeadin' light an' love,
That plays a noble part.
Shoo's worthy of a monarch's choice,
Her worth can ne'er be towld ;
Shoo cam to mak folks' hearts feel glad,
Shoo's worth her weight i' gowld.
1 Lane. 2 Than.