An if yo've a heart 'at can feel, it must ache
When yo hear ther faal oaths an what coorse jests they make;
Yet once they wor daycent an wod be soa still,
But they've takken th' wrang turnin,—they're gooin daan hill.
Them lasses, soa bonny, just aght o' ther teens,
Wi' faces an figures 'at's fit for a queen's.
What is it they're dooin? Just watch an yo'll see 't,
What they're hawkin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.
They keep sendin praichers to th' heathen an sich,
But we've heathen at hooam at require 'em as mich:
Just luk at that craad at comes troopin along,
Some yellin aght th' chorus o'th' new comic song;
Old an young,—men an wimmen,—some bummers, some swells,
Turned aght o' some dnnkin an singin room hells;—
They seek noa dark corners, they glory i'th' leet,
This is Briggate,—their Briggate, at Setterdy neet.
Is it axin too mich ov "the powers that be,"
For a city's main street from sich curse to be free?
Shall Morality's claims be set all o' one side,
Sich a market for lewdness an vice to provide?
Will that day ivver come when a virtuous lass,
Alone, withaat insult, in safety may pass?
Its time for a change, an awm langin to see 't,—
A respectable Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Them well-meeanin parents, at hooam at ther ease,
Are oft wilfully blind to sich dangers as theas;
Their sons an their dowters are honest an pure,—
That may be,—an pray God it may ivver endure.
But ther's noa poor lost craytur, but once on a time,
Wor as pure as ther own an wod shudder at crime.
The devil is layin his snares for ther feet,—
An they're swarmin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.
Awr Annie.
Saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een?
That's awr Annie.
Shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,'
Shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen;
Shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo,—
Shoo does just what shoo likes to do,—
But then shoo's loved,—an knows it too;—
That's awr Annie.
If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,—
That's awr Annie.
Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade,
Shoo puts all others into th' shade.
At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry,
An nivver give a reason why:
Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy;
That's awr Annie.
Roamin throo meadows green an sweet,
That's awr Annie;
Trippin away wi' fairy feet,
Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet;
Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars
Deckin her golden curls wi' flaars;
Singin like happy burd for haars,
That's awr Annie.
Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit,
That's awr Annie;—
But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit,
Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit.
But could aw have mi way i' this,
Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,—
Th' same innocent an artless miss,
That's awr Annie.
Child ov mi old age, dearest, best!
That's awr Annie;
Cloise to mi weary bosom prest,
Far mooar nor others aw feel blest;—
Jewels an gold are nowt to me,
For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee,
Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me,
Unless it's Annie.