Once on a time we rammeld far
O'er hills an dales, an rugged scar;
Whear fowk, less ventersum, ne'er dar
To set ther feet;
An nowt wor thear awr peace to mar;—
Oh, it wor sweet!
But nah, old chap, thi limbs are stiff;—
Tha connot run an climb—but if
Tha wags thi tail,—why, that's eniff
To cheer me yet;
An th' fun we've had o'er plain an cliff,
Awst ne'er forget.
If aw, like Burns, could sing thi praise;
Could touch the strings to tune sich lays—
Tha'd be enshrined for endless days
I' deathless song;
But Fate has will'd it otherways.
Yet, love is strong.
Blest be that heart 'at finds i' me
What nubdy else could ivver see;—
Summat to love.—Aye! even thee,
Tha knows its true;
We've shared booath wealth an poverty,
An meean to do.
When fowk wi kindly hearts aglow,
Say, "Poor old fogies," they dooant know
'At all they own is far below
Thy worth to me;
An all the wealth at they could show
Wod ne'er tempt thee,
Time's creepin on,—we wait a chonce,
When we shall quit life's mazy donee;
But, please God! Tak us booath at once,
Old Dick an me;
When's time to quit,—why—that announce
When best suits Thee.
Briggate at Setterdy Neet.
Sin Leeds wor a city it puts on grand airs,
An aw've noa wish to bother wi' others' affairs;
'At they've mich to be praad on aw freely admit,
But aw think thier's some things they mud alter a bit.
They've raised some fine buildings 'at's worth lookin at,—
They're a credit to th' city, thers noa daat o' that;
But ther's nowt strikes a stranger soa mich as a seet
O'th' craad 'at's i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Aw've travelled a bit i' booath cities an taans,
An aw've oft seen big craads when they've stept aght o' baands;—
Well,—excitement sometimes will lead fowk astray,
When they dooant meean owt wrang, but just rollikin play,
But Leeds is a licker,—for tumult an din,—
For bullies an rowdies an brazzen-faced sin.
Aw defy yo to find me another sich street,—
As disgraceful, as Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Poleecemen are standin i' twos an i' threes,
But they must be stooan blinnd to what other fowk sees;
It must be for ornaments they've been put thear,—
It cant be nowt else, for they dooant interfere.
Young lads who imagine it maks 'em seem men
If they hustle an shaat and mak fooils o' thersen.
Daycent fowk mun leeav th' cawsey for th' middle o'th' street
For its th' roughs at own Briggate at Setterdy neet.