Dad's Lad.
Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet,
Runnin raand throo morn to neet;
Banishin mi mornin's nap,—
Little bonny, noisy chap,—
But aw can't find fault yo see,—
For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.
He loves his mother withaat daat,
Tho' shoo gies him monny a claat;
An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad,"
Which ov coorse maks mother mad;
Then he snoozles on her knee,
For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.
He's a bother aw'll admit,
But he'll alter in a bit;
An when older grown, maybe,
He'll a comfort prove to me,
An mi latter days mak glad,
For aw know he's Daddy's lad.
If he's aght o' sect a minnit,
Ther's some mischief, an he's in it,
When he's done it then he'll flee;
An for shelter comes to me.
What can aw do but shield my lad?
For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.
After a day's hard toil an care,
Sittin in mi rockin chair;
Nowt mi wearied spirit charms,
Like him nestlin i' mi arms,
An noa music is as sweet,
As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.
Willie's Weddin.
A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear
Tha's won a wife at last;
Tha'll have a happier time next year,
Nor what tha's had i'th' past.
If owt can lend this life a charm,
Or mak existence sweet,
It is a lovin woman's arm
Curled raand yor neck at neet.
An if shoo's net an angel,
Dooant grummel an find fault,
For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find
Are seldom worth ther salt.
They're far too apt to flee away,
To spreead ther bonny wings;
They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day
Nor th' duties wifehood brings.
A wife should be a woman,
An if tha's lucky been;
Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass,
Is equal to a Queen.
For if her heart is true to thee,
An thine to her proves true,—
Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies,
An tha need nivver rue.