Chapter I: Part 1

DEDICATION.
To RICHARD CHERRY, C. E.,
as a small token of the respect in which he is held by The Author.

YORKSHIRE DITTIES;
BY JOHN HARTLEY; Born 1839 Died 1915
TO WHICH IS ADDED THE CREAM OF WIT AND HUMOUR,
FROM HIS POPULAR WRITINGS.
Second Series

WAKEFIELD: WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS. LONDON: S. D. EWINS JR. AND CO., 22, PATERNOSTER ROW. MANCHESTER: JOHN HEYWOOD, AND A. HEYWOOD AND SON. [ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.]

PREFACE. We offer no apology for presenting this little book to the public, feeling sure from our past experience, that it will be kindly welcomed by a great many lovers of their "native twang." THE PUBLISHERS.

CONTENTS of Second Series.

Th' Better Part. Done Agean. Latter Wit. My Gronfayther's Days. Heart Brocken. To a Daisy. A Bad Sooart. All we Had. Give it 'em Hot. Th' Honest Hard Worker. Niver Heed. Sing On. What aw Want. What it is to be Mother. What is It. Come thi Ways! Advice to Jenny. Ther's mich Expected. A Strange Stooary. Take Heart. Did yo Iver. An Old Man's Christmas Morning. Billy Bumble's Bargain. Moral. Rejected. Duffin Johnie. Lost Love. Th' Traitle Sop. To Let. Fault Finders. Disapointment. Work Away. New Machinery &c. September Month. A Hawporth. Buttermilk &c. It's a comfort. Progress. Try Again. Jealousy. Winter. Persevere. Booith-Taan Election. Election. None think Alike. Seaside.

Th' Better Part.

A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, Wi' body bent, and snowy pate, Aw met one day;-- An' daan o' th' rooad side grassy banks He sat to rest his weary shanks; An' aw, to wile away my time, O'th' neighbouring hillock did recline, An' bade "gooid day."

Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true, If in your heart yo niver rue The time 'ats past? Does envy niver fill your breast When passin fowk wi' riches blest? An' do yo niver think it wrang At yo should have to trudge alang, Soa poor to th' last?"

"Young man," he said "aw envy nooan; But ther are times aw pity some, Wi' all mi heart; To see what troubled lives they spend, What cares upon their hands depend; Then aw in thoughtfulness declare 'At 'little cattle little care' Is th' better part.

Gold is a burden hard to carry, An' tho' Dame Fortune has been chary O' gifts to me; Yet still aw strive to feel content, An' think what is, for th' best is meant; An' th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, Is still to keep mi conscience clear, From dark spots free.

An' while some tax ther brains to find What they'll be forced to leave behind, When th' time shall come; Aw try bi honest word an' deed, To get what little here aw need, An' live i' hopes at last to say, When breath go as flickerin away, 'Awm gooin hooam.'"

Aw gave his hand a hearty shake, It seem'd as tho' the words he spake Sank i' mi heart: Aw walk'd away a wiser man, Detarmined aw wod try his plan I' hopes at last 'at aw might be As weel assured ov Heaven as he; That's th' better part.

Done Agean.

Aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish,
We've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack,
We've as mich gooid spike-cake as we wish,
An' wi' currens its varry near black;
We've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink,
We've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock,
We've a load o' puttates under th' sink,
So we're pretty weel off as to jock.
Aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide,
But the cause aw dar hardly let aat;
It suits me moor nor all else beside;
Aw've a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw can nah have a spree to misel?
Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass;
An' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an' tell
My old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass.
Some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed,
He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife;
If he does awve oft heard 'at it's sed,
'At it's sure to breed trouble an' strife;
If it does aw'm net baan to throw up,
Tho' aw'd mich rayther get on withaat;
But who wodn't risk a blow up,
For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet,
For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob,
Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't,
At mi frolic wod prove a done job.
But aw'll gladden mi een wi' its face,
To mak sure at its safe in its nick;--
But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place!
Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.
Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me,
An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat,
For it connot be th' wife, coss you see
It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.

But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side,
An' aw see'at shoo's all on a grin;
To chait her aw've monny a time tried,
But I think it's nah time to give in.
A chap may be deep as a well,
But a woman's his maister when done;
He may chuckle and flatter hissel,
But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.
It's a rayther unpleasant affair,
Yet it's better it's happened noa daat;
Aw'st be fain to come in for a share
O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.

Latter Wit.

Awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat,
Wheear last aw set wi' thee;
It seems long years sin' last we met,
Awm sure it must be three.

Awm wond'rin what aw sed or did,
Or what aw left undone:
'At made thi hook it, an' get wed,
To one tha used to shun.

Aw dooant say awm a handsom chap,
Becoss aw know awm net;
But if aw wor 'ith' mind to change,
He isn't th' chap, aw'll bet.

Awm net a scoller, but aw know
A long chawk moor ner him;
It couldn't be his knowledge box
'At made thi change thi whim.

He doesn't haddle as mich brass
As aw do ivery wick:
An' if he gets a gradely shop,
It's seldom he can stick.

An' then agean,--he goes on th' rant;
Nah, that aw niver do;--
Aw allus mark misen content,
Wi' an odd pint or two.

His brother is a lazy lout,--
His sister's nooan too gooid,--
Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,--
Vice seems to run ith' blooid.

An yet th'art happy,--soa they say,
That caps me moor ner owt!
Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,
Nor iver awst ha' thowt.

Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,
Befoor yo'd getten wed;
Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho
Aw dooant know what he sed.

But he'd his arm araand thi waist,
An tho' thi face wor hid,
Aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:--
That's what aw niver did.

Aw thowt tha'd order him away,
An' mak a fearful row,
But tha niver tuk noa nooatice,
Just as if tha didn't know.

Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes,
Aw've been a trifle soft,
Aw happen should a' dun't misen?
Aw've lang'd to do it oft.

Thar't lost to me, but if a chonce
Should turn up by-an-by,
If aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits,
That isn't t'reason why.

My Gronfayther's Days.

A'a, Jonny! a'a Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee! But come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee, For it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha says:-- Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronofayther's days.

When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then, But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen; For they smook, an' they drink, an' get other bad ways; Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.

Aw remember th' furst day aw went a coortin' a bit, An' walked aght thi granny;--awst niver forget; For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;-- It wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days.

Ther's nooa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed; They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; They're a make up o' buckram, an' waddin', an' stays, But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.

At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor, But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door; He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays; Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.

Ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah, But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah; An' ther's telegraff poles all o'th edge o'th' highways, Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.

We're teld to be thankful for blessin's at's sent, An' aw hooap 'at tha'll allus be blessed wi' content; Tha mun make th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays, But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.

Heart Brocken.

He wor a poor hard workin lad,
An' shoo a workin lass:
An' hard they tew'd throo day to day,
For varry little brass.
An' oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin' day,
An' lang'd for th' happy time,
When poverty noa moor should part,
Two lovers i' ther prime.

But wark wor scarce, an' wages low
An' mait an' drink wor dear,
They did ther best to struggle on,
As year crept after year.
But they wor little better off,
Nor what they'd been befoor;
It tuk 'em all ther time to keep
Grim Want aatside 'oth' door.

Soa things went on, wol Hope at last,
Gave place to dark despair;
They felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts,
An' want an toil to share.
At length he screw'd his courage up
To leave his native shore;
An' goa where wealth wor worshipped less,
An' men wor valued moor.

He towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear
Just glistened in her e'e;
Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen,
But think sometimes o' me:
An' whether tha's gooid luck or ill,
Tha knows aw shall be glad
To see thee safe at hooam agean,
An' welcome back mi lad."

"Awl labor on, an' do mi best;
Tho' lonely aw must feel,
But awst be happy an content
If tha be dooin weel.
But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll,
An' keep us far apart;
Thas left a poor, poor lass behind,
An taen away her heart."

"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget,
Wheariver aw may rooam,
That bonny face an' lovin heart,
Awve prized soa dear at hoam?
Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this,
'At till next time we meet
Tha'll be mi first thowt ivery morn,
An' last thowt ivery neet."

He went a way an' years flew by,
But tidins seldom came;
Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh,
But breathed noa word o' blame;
When one fine day a letter came,
'Twor browt to her at th' mill,
Shoo read it, an' her tremlin bands,
An' beating heart stood still.

Her fellow workers gathered raand
An caught her as shoo fell,
An' as her heead droop'd o' ther arms,
Shoo sighed a sad "farewell.
Poor lass! her love had proved untrue,
He'd play'd a traitor's part,
He'd taen another for his bride,
An' broke a trustin heart."

Her doleful story sooin wor known,
An' monny a tear wor shed;
They took her hooam an' had her laid,
Upon her humble bed;
Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come
Her burial fees to pay;
But some poor comrade's undertuk,
To see her put away.

Each gave what little helps they could,
From aat ther scanty stoor;
I' hopes 'at some at roll'd i' wealth
Wod give a trifle moor.
But th' maisters ordered 'em away,
Abaat ther business, sharp!
For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice,
An' shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.

To a Daisy,

Found blooming March 7th.

A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin, Little daisy! Pray, whativer wor ta doin? Are ta crazy? Winter winds are blowin' yet, Tha'll be starved, mi little pet.

Did a gleam'o' sunshine warm thee, An deceive thee? Niver let appearance charm thee, For believe me, Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares, Laid to catch thee unawares.

Still aw think it luks a shame, To tawk sich stuff; Aw've lost faith, an tha'll do th' same, Hi, sooin enuff: If tha'rt happy as tha art Trustin' must be th' wisest part.

Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan, Raand thi dwellin'; They may screen thee when aw've gooan Ther's no tellin'; An' when gentle spring draws near Aw'll release thee, niver fear.

An' if then thi pratty face, Greets me smilin'; Aw may come an' sit bith' place, Time beguilin'; Glad to think aw'd paar to be, Ov some use, if but to thee.

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd raythur face a redwut brick, Sent flyin' at mi heead; Aw'd raythur track a madman's steps, Whearivei they may leead; Aw'd raythur ventur in a den, An' stail a lion's cub: Aw'd raythur risk the foamin wave In an old leaky tub; Aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray, Whear bullets thickest shower; Nor trust a mean, black hearted man, At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark, A madman change his whim; A lion may forgive a theft; A leaky tub may swim; Bullets may pass yo harmless by, An' leave all safe at last; A thaasand thunders shake the sky, An' spare yo when they've past; Yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease; Make poverty yo'r friend; But wi' a mean, blackhearted man, Noa mortal can contend.

Ther's malice in his kindest smile, His proffered hand's a snare; He's plannin deepest villany, When seemingly mooast fair; He leads yo' on wi' oily tongue, Swears he's yo're fastest friend. He get's yo' once within his coils, An' crushes yo' ith' end. Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat, An' seeks whom to devour; But he's a saint, compared to some, 'At's th' luk to be i' power.

All we Had.

It worn't for her winnin ways,
Nor for her bonny face
But shoo wor th' only lass we had,
An that quite alters th' case.

We'd two fine lads as yo need see,
An' weel we love 'em still;
But shoo war th' only lass we had,
An' we could spare her ill.

We call'd her bi mi mother's name,
It saanded sweet to me;
We little thowt ha varry sooin
Awr pet wod have to dee.

Aw used to watch her ivery day,
Just like a oppenin bud;
An' if aw couldn't see her change,
Aw fancied' at aw could.

Throo morn to neet her little tongue
Wor allus on a stir;
Awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp,
But nooan at lispt like her.

Sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks,
'At childer shouldn't play;
But then, they wor soa nicely done,
We let her have her way.

But bit bi bit her spirits fell,
Her face grew pale an' thin;
For all her little fav'rite toys
Shoo didn't care a pin.

Aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads,
Wi monny a doleful nod;
Aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still
Aw couldn't think shoo wod.

Day after day my wife an' me,
Bent o'er that suff'rin child,
Shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me,
Then shut her een an' smiled.

At last her spirit pass'd away;
Her once breet een wor dim;
Shoo'd heeard her Maker whisper 'come,'
An' hurried off to Him.

Fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve,
For God's will must be best;
But when yo've lost a child yo've loved,
It puts yor Faith to th' test.

We pick'd a little bit o' graand,
Whear grass and daisies grew,
An' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon
Ther solemn shadows threw.

We saw her laid to rest, within
That deep grave newly made;
Wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall,
On th' handle ov his spade.

It troubled us to walk away,
An' leeav her bi hersen;
Th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide,
We'd niver felt till then.

But th' hardest task wor yet to come,
That pang can ne'er be towld;
'Twor when aw feszend th' door at nee't,
An' locked her aat i'th' cowld.

'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek,
'Twor then aw felt mooast sad;
For shoo'd been sich a tender plant,
An' th' only lass we had.

But nah we're growin moor resign'd,
Although her face we miss;
For He's blest us wi another,
An we've hopes o' rearin this,

Give it 'em Hot.

Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!
Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?
Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant
Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?

O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
An honest man still should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin,
An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.

Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested,
An' what they're entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin,
All yo 'at profess others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin,
If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.

Th' Honest Hard Worker.

It's hard what poor fowk mun put u'p wi'!
What insults an' snubs they've to tak!
What bowin an' scrapin's expected,
If a chap's a black coit on his back.
As if clooas made a chap ony better,
Or riches improved a man's heart,
As if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter
Nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart.

Give me one, hard workin, an' honest,
Tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse;
If it's muck 'ats been getten bi labor,
It does'nt mak th' man ony worse.
Awm sick o' thease simpering dandies,
'At think coss they've getten some brass,
They've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers,
An' curl up their nooas as they pass.

It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin,
To be curlin an' partin ther hair;
An' seekin one's own fun and pleasure,
Niver thinkin ha others mun fare.
It's all varry weel to be spendin
Ther time at a hunt or a ball,
But if th' workers war huntin an' doncin,
Whativer wad come on us all?

Ther's summat beside fun an' frolic
To live for, aw think, if we try;
Th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker
Nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky.
Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful,
An' awve oft felt a want on't misen,
Yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin,
But it wodn't do long withaat men.

One truth they may put i' ther meersham,
An' smoke it--that is if they can;
A man may mak hooshuns o' riches,
But riches can ne'er mak a man.
Then give me that honest hard worker,
'At labors throo marnin to neet,
Tho' his rest may be little an' seldom,
Yet th' little he gets he finds sweet.

He may rank wi' his wealthier brother,
An' rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some;
For a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor
Is a passport to th' world 'at's to come.
For we know it's a sin to be idle,
As man's days i' this world are but few;
Then let's all wi' awr lot 'be contented,
An' continue to toil an' to tew.

For ther's one thing we all may be sure on,
If we each do awr best wol we're here,
'At when, th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on,
We shall have varry little to fear.
An' at last, when, we throw daan awr tackle,
An' are biddin farewell to life's stage,
May we hear a voice whisper at partin,
"Come on, lad! Tha's haddled thi wage;"

Niver Heed.

Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' working class,
'At's strugglin to pool throo;
An' if it's little 'at aw get,
It's littie 'at aw need;
An' if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to niver heed.

Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An' mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An' dine off silver plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An' things they find they cannot get,
Why, try to niver heed.

Ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls,
An' letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! niver heed!

Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,
An' th' flaars smile at mi feet,
An' when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed,
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, niver heed.

Sing On.

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; Aw cannot sing; A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con Fresh troubles spring. Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, Aw'd leave mi cares an be a burd to-day. Mi heart war once as full o' joy as thine, But nah it's sad; Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, Sich faith aw had;-- But he who promised aw should be his wife Has robb'd me o' mi ivery joy i' life. Sing on: tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; Yet, when aw hear Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an' strong, Aw feel a tear Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief. This little darlin', cuddled to mi breast, It little knows, When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'At all mi woes Are smothered thear, an' mi poor heart ud braik But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake. Sing on; an' if tha e'er should chonce to see That faithless swain, Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, Strike up thy strain, An' if his heart yet answers to thy trill Fly back to me, an' aw will love him still. But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel All hope is o'er, An' he that aw believed an' loved soa weel Be loved noa more; For that hard heart, bird music cannot move, Is far too cold a dwellin'-place for love.

What aw Want.

Gie me a little humble cot,
A bit o' garden graand,
Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot,
Wi' hills an' trees all raand;

An' if besides mi hooam ther flows
A little mumuring rill,
At sings sweet music as it gooas,
Awst like it better still.

Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel,
An' childer two or three,
Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal,
An' hearts brimful o' glee.

Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil
Mi efforts to engage,
Gie me a maister who can smile
When forkin aght mi wage.

Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust,
'An tell mi secrets to;
One tender-hearted, firm an' just,
Who sticks to what is true.

Gie me a pipe to smook at neet,
A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale,
A faithful dog 'at runs to meet
Me wi a waggin tail.

A cat to purr o'th' fender rims,
To freeten th' mice away;
A cosy bed to rest mi limbs
Throo neet to commin day.

Gie me all this, an' aw shall be
Content, withaat a daat,
But if denied, then let me be
Content to live withaat.

For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess
Can purchase pleasures true;
For he's th' best chonce o' happiness,
Whose wants are small an' few.

What it is to be Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!
At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me,
Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother,
An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer,
Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun,
Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder
Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner,
An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest;
Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"
An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em,
They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed;
For quiet yo niver can catch 'em
Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.

For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us
'At one on em's takken wi' fits;
Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus,
An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd,
But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe;
To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it,
Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin',
Aw try to be gradely, an' straight;
For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin',
He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished
Wi allus been kept in a fuss,
He says, as he looks up astonished,
"Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin',
Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags?
But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in--
They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an' it will be,
A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt;
But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me,
For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin'
Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight;
An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin',
For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o' my weshin',
An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried;
Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen,
An' mangle, an' iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin';
Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew;
Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin',
An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.

Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets,
Stitch on buttons, an' th' stockins' to mend,
Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver,
An' that brings a week's wark to its end.

Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner,
It's ther only warm meal in a wick;
Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner,
For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.

But a chap mun be like to ha' summat,
An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang,
Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner,
Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.

But if yor a wife an' a mother,
Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind;
Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother,
An' to yor own comforts be blind.

But still, just to seer all ther places,
When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet,
Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces;
It's nooan a despisable seet.

An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin',
(Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean),
'At if single, aw sooin should be playin'
Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.

What is It.

What is it maks a crusty wife Forget to scold, an' leeave off strife? What is it smoothes the rooad throo life? It's sooap.

What is it maks a gaumless muff Grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff, Woll better men can't get enough? It's sooap.

What is it, if it worn't theear, Wod mak some fowk feel varry queer, An' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere? It's sooap.

What is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, To goa to th' church, becoss they know 'At th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa? It's sooap.

What is it gains fowk invitations, Throo them 'at live i' lofty stations? What is it wins mooast situations? It's sooap.

What is it men say they detest, Yet alus like that chap the best 'At gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest? It's sooap.

What is it, when the devil sends His agents raand to work his ends, What is it gains him lots o' friends? It's sooap.

What is it we should mooast despise, An' by its help refuse to rise, Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes? It's sooap.

What is it, when life's wastin' fast, When all this world's desires are past, Will prove noa use to us at last? It's sooap.

Come thi Ways!

Bonny lassie, come thi ways,
An' let us goa together!
Tho' we've met wi stormy days,
Ther'll be some sunny weather:
An' if joy should spring for me,
Tha shall freely share it;
An' if trouble comes to thee,
Aw can help to bear it.

Tho thi mammy says us nay,
An' thi dad's unwillin';
Wod ta have me pine away
Wi' this love 'at's killin'?
Come thi ways, an' let me twine
Mi arms once moor abaght thee;
Weel tha knows mi heart is thine,
Aw couldn't live withaat thee.

Ivery day an' haar 'at slips,
Some pleasure we are missin',
For those bonny rooasy lips
Aw'm niver stall'd o' kissin',
If men wor wise to walk life's track
Withaat sith joys to glad 'em,
He must ha' made a sad mistak
'At gave a Eve to Adam.

Advice to Jenny.

Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee,
An' dunnot luk soa sad;
It grieves me varry mich to see
Tha freeats abaat yon lad;
For weel tha knows, withaat a daat,
Wheariver he may be,
Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat,
He's allus true to thee.

Tha'll learn mooar sense, lass, in a while,
For wisdom comes wi' time,
An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile
At troubles sich as thine;
A faithful chap is better far,
Altho' he likes to rooam,
Nor one 'at does what isn't reight,
An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.

Tha needn't think 'at wedded life
Noa disappointment brings;
Tha munnot think to keep a chap
Teed to thi appron strings:
Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet,
An' let thi heart be glad,
For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet,
Tha's wed a honest lad.

Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great,
'At's sarvents at her call,
Wod freely change her grand estate
For thine tha thinks soa small:
For riches cannot buy content,
Soa tho' thi joys be few,
Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,--
A heart 'at's kind an' true.

Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay,
An' meet him wi' a kiss,
Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay
Wi treatment sich as this;
But if thi een luk red like that,
He'll see all's wrang at once,
He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat,
An' bolt if he's a chonce.

Ther's mich Expected.

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts,
An' we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble;
Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"
It'seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.

But if we'd anxiously tak
To makkin' things smooth as we're able,
Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back,
An' monny a better spread table.

It's a sad state o' things when a man
Connot put ony faith in his brother,
An' fancies he'll chait if he can,
An' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.

An' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand
High in social position an' power,
To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd
An' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower.

It's sad to see luxury rife,
An' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;
While others are wearin' aat life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.

Some in carriages rollin' away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;
But their chariots may bear 'em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.

Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;
For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An' from them varry mich is expected.

An' tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded,
Let deeath come--as surely it will--
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.

An' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear,
Say "The hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew,"
That sentence shall fall on their ear--
"Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;
If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime,
To put sich stooaries into ryhme,
But yet, contentedly aw chime
Mi simple ditty:
An if it's all a waste o' time,
The moor's the pity.

-------

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet, Wi' reekin heead and weary feet, A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; He made mi start; But pluckin up, aw did him greet Wi beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be, An th' latest fashion aw could see, But yet they hung soa dawderly, Like suits i' shops; Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rather late For one at's dress'd i' sich a state, Across this Slack to mak ther gate: Is ther some pairty? Or does ta allus dress that rate-- Black duds o'th' wairty?"

He twisted raand as if to see What sooart o' covy aw cud be, An' grinned wi sich a maath at me, It threw me sick! "Lor saves!" aw cried, "an' is it thee At's call'd ow'd Nick!"

But when aw luk'd up into th' place, Whear yo'd expect to find a face; A awful craytur met mi gaze, It took mi puff: "Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, Aw've seen enough!"

Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, An' soa aw stop't a bit to hear What things he'd ax; But as he spake his, teeth rang clear, Like knick-a-nacks.

"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee Net knowin sich a chap as me; For oft when tha's been on a spree, Aw've been thear too; But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, Tha's just edged throo.

Mi name is Deeath--tha needn't start, And put thi hand upon thi heart, For tha ma see 'at aw've noa dart Wi which to strike; Let's sit an' tawk afoor we part, O'th edge o'th dyke."

"Nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad, For Bobby Burns tells me tha had A scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, Gad! Tha worn't dress'd I' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad Across thi breast!"

"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat To find me' wanderin abaght; But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat A job to do; Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, Mi arrows too."

"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'At fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?" "Noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see When th' truth aw tell! Fowk do withaat mi darts an me, Thev kill thersel.

They do it too at sich a rate Wol mi owd system's aght o' date; What we call folly, they call fate; An' all ther pleasur Is ha' to bring ther life's estate To th' shortest measur.

They waste ther time, an' waste ther gains, O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, Thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains, For ever swimmin, An' if a bit o' sense remains, It's fun i'th wimmen.

Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, Nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft, E'er made as monny deead or daft, As Gin an' Rum, An' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft At me, bi gum!

But if they thus goa on to swill, They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill, For give a druffen chap his fill, An sooin off pops he, An teetotal fowk moor surely still, Will dee wi th' dropsy.

It's a queer thing at sich a nation Can't use a bit o' moderation; But one lot rush to ther damnation Through love o'th bottle: Wol others think to win salvation Wi being teetotal."

Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "Tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "Let liquors be, sup ale asteead, An' tha'll be better, An' dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard Like a dead letter."

"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, Yo come to fotch us chaps away! But this seems strange, soa tell me pray, Ha wor't yo coom? Wor it to tell us keep away, Yo hav'nt room?"

"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar But tha'll find spirits worse bi far Sarved aght i' monny a public bar, At's thowt quite lawful; Nor what tha'll find i'th' places par- Sons call soa awful."

"Gooid bye!" he sed, an' off he shot, Leavin behind him sich a lot O' smook, as blue as it wor hot! It set me stewin! Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot Ov us own brewin.

---------

If when yo've read this stooary through, Yo daat if it's exactly true, Yo'll nobbut do as others do, Yo may depend on't. Blow me! aw ommost daat it too, So thear's an end on't

Take Heart.

Roughest roads, we often find,
Lead us on to th' nicest places;
Kindest hearts oft hide behind
Some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars' whose colors breetest are,
Oft delight awr wond'ring seet;
But thers others, humbler far,
Smell a thaasand times as sweet.

Burds o' monny color'd feather,
Please us as they skim along,
But ther charms all put together,
Connot equal th' skylark's song.

Bonny women--angels seemin,--
Set awr hearts an' brains o' fire;
But its net ther beauties; beamin,
Its ther gooidness we admire.

Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle,
Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray;
He best proves his might an' mettle,
Who remains to win the day.

Monkey's an' vain magpies chatter,
But it doesn't prove em wise;
An it's net wi noise an' clatter,
Men o' sense expect to rise.

'Tisn't them 'at promise freely,
Are mooast ready to fulfill;
An' 'tisn't them 'at trudge on dreely
'At are last at top o'th' hill.

Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment,
Gaudy flaars awr een beguile;
Women may be loved for raiment,
Show may blind us for a while;

But we sooin grow discontented,
An' for solid worth we sigh,
An' we leearn to prize the jewel,
Tho it's hidden from the eye.

Him 'at thinks to gether diamonds
As he walks along his rooad,
Niver need be tired wi' huggin,
For he'll have a little looad.

Owt 'at's worth a body's winnin
Mun be toiled for long an' hard;
An' tho' th' struggle may be pinnin,
Perseverance wins reward.

Earnest thowt, an' constant striving,
Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet;
Tho' we may be late arrivin,
Yet at last we'st come in reight.

He who WILL succeed, he MUST,
When he's bid false hopes farewell.
If he firmly fix his trust
In his God, and in hissel,

Did yo Iver.

Gooid gracious! cried Susy, one fine summer's morn,
Here's a bonny to do! aw declare!
Aw wor niver soa capt sin th' day aw wor born!
Aw near saw sich a seet at a Fair.

Here, Sally! come luk! Ther's a maase made its nest
Reight ith' craan o' mi new Sundy bonnet!
Haiver its fun its way into this chist,
That caps me! Aw'm fast what to mak on it!

Its cut! Sithee thear! It's run reight under th' bed!
An luk here! What's'theas little things stirrin?
If they arn't some young uns at th' gooid-for-nowt's bred,
May aw be as deead as a herrin!

But what does ta say? "Aw mun draand 'em?" nooan soa!
Just luk ha they're seekin ther mother;
Shoo must be a poor little softheead to goa;
For awm nooan baan to cause her noa bother.

But its rayther to bad, just to mak her hooam thear,
For mi old en's net fit to be seen in
An' this new en, awm thinkin, ul luk rayther queer,
After sich a rum lot as thats been in.

But shut up awr pussy, an heed what aw say;
Yo mun keep a sharp e'e or shoo'll chait us;
Ah if shoo sees th' mother shoo'll kill it! An pray
What mun become o' thease poor helpless crayturs?

A'a dear! fowk have mich to be thankful for, yet,
'At's a roof o' ther own to cawer under,
For if we'd to seek ony nook we could get,
Whativer 'ud come on us aw wonder?

We should nooan on us like to be turned aat o' door,
Wi a lot a young bairns to tak 'care on:
Ah' although awm baat bonnet, an think misen poor,
What little aw have yo'st have t'share on.

That poor little maase aw dooant think meant me harm,
Shoo ne'er knew what that bonnet had cost me;
All shoo wanted wor some little nook snug an' warm,
An' a gooid two o'-three shillin its lost me.

Aw should think as they've come into th' world born i' silk,
They'll be aristocratical varmin;
But awm wasting mi time! awl goa get 'em some milk,
An' na daat but th' owd lass likes it warmin.

Bless mi life! a few drops 'll sarve them! If we try,
Awm weel sure we can easily spare 'em,
But as sooin as they're able, awl mak 'em all fly!
Never mind' if aw dooant! harum scarum!

An Old Man's Christmas Morning.

Its a long time sin' thee an' me
have met befoor, owd lad,--
Soa pull up thi cheer, an' sit daan,
for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee:
Thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,--
yet mi heart feels glad,
To see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek,
an' a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e.

Thi limbs seem to totter an' shake,
like a crazy owd fence,
'At th' wind maks to tremel an' creak;
but tha still fills thi place;
An' it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd
wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense,
'At i' spite o' thi years an' thi cares,
tha still wears a smile o' thi face.

Come fill up thi pipe--
for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,--
An' tha'll find a drop o' hooarm-brew'd
i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say;
An' nah, wol tha'rt toastin thi shins,
just scale th' foir, an' aw'll side thi owd stick,
Then aw'll tell thi some things 'ats happen'd
sin tha went away.

An' first of all tha mun knaw
'at aw havn't been spar'd,
For trials an' troubles have come,
an' mi heart has felt well nigh to braik;
An' mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride,
an' mi fortuns has shared,
Shoo bent under her griefs,
an' shoo's flown far, far away aat o' ther raik.

My life's like an owd gate
'ats nobbut one hinge for support,
An' sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely--
at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust;
But it hasn't to be, for it seems
Life maks me his spooart,
An' Deeath cannot even spare time,
to turn sich an owd man into dust.

Last neet as aw sat an' watched th' yule log
awd put on to th' fire,
As it cracked, an' sparkled, an' flared
up wi' sich gusto an' spirit,
An' when it wor touch'd it shone breeter,
an' flared up still higher,
Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back
for aw couldn't bide near it.

Th' dull saand o' th' church bells
coom to tell me one moor Christmas mornin',
Had come, for its welcome--
but ha could aw welcome it when all aloan?
For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly,
an' th' cold wind wor moanin,
An' them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep
i' that cold church yard, under a stoan:

Soa aw went to bed an' aw slept,
an' then began dreamin,
'At mi wife stood by mi side, an' smiled,
an' mi heart left off its beatin',
An' aw put aat mi hand, an' awoke,
an' mornin' wor gleamin';
An' its made me feel sorrowful,
an aw cannot give ovver freatin.

For aw think what a glorious Christmas day
'twod ha' been,
If awd goan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares,
nor partin', nor sorrow,
For aw know shoo's thear,
or that dream aw sud nivver ha' seen,
But aw'll try to be patient,
an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

It's forty' long summers an' winters,
sin tha bade "gooid bye,"
An' as fine a young fella tha wor,
as iver aw met i' mi life;
When tha went to some far away land,
thi fortune to try,
An' aw stopt at hooam to toil on,
becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife.

An' shoo wor a bonny young wench,
an' better nor bonny,--
Aw seem nah as if aw can see her,
wi' th' first little bairn on her knee,
An' we called it Ann,
for aw liked that name best ov ony,
An' fowk said it wor th' pictur o' th' mother,
wi' just a strinklin o' me.

An' th' next wor a lad, an' th' next wor a lad!
then a lass came,--
That made us caant six,--
an' six happier fowk niver sat to a meal,
An' they grew like hop plants--full o' life--
but waikly i' th' frame,
An' at last one drooped,
an' Deeath coom an' marked her with his seal.

A year or two moor
an' another seemed longin to goa,
An' all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed,
'at he might sleep sweeter--
Then th' third seemed to sicken an' pine,
an' we couldn't say "noa,"
For he said his sister had called,
an' he wor most anxious to meet her--

An' how we watched th' youngest,
noa mortal can tell but misen,
For we prized it moor,
becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish;
At last her call came,
an' shoo luked sich a luk at us then,
Which aw ne'er shall forget,
tho mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.

A few years moor,
when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten,
Mi friends began askin my wife,
if shoo felt hersen hearty an' strong?
An' aw niver saw at her face
wor beginning to whiten,
Till sho grew like a shadow,
an' aw couldn't even guess wrong.

Then aw stood beside th' grave
when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel,
An' he said "this last maks five,
an' aw think ther's just room for another,"
An' aw went an' left him,
lonely an' heartsick to travel,
Till th' time comes when aw may lig daan
beside them four bairns an' ther mother.

An' aw think what a glorious Christmas day
'twod ha been
If aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares,
nor partin, nor sorrow;
An aw knaw they're thear,
or that dream aw should niver ha seen,
But aw'll try to be patient,
an' maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig,
Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say;
An' mony a mile he had to trig
One sweltin' summer day;
But Billy didn't care a fig,
He said he'd mak it pay;
He _knew_ it wor a bargain,
An' he cared net who said nay.

He browt it hooam to Ploo Croft loin,
But what wor his surprise
To find all th' neighbors standing aat,
We oppen maaths an' eyes;
"By gow!" sed Billy, to hissen,
"This pig _must_ be a prize!"
An' th' wimmen cried, "Gooid gracious fowk!
But isn't it a size?"

Then th' chaps sed, "Billy, where's ta been?
Whativer has ta browt?
That surely isn't crayture, lad,
Aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt?
It luks moor like a donkey,
Does ta think 'at it con rawt?"
But Billy crack'd his carter's whip.
An' answered' em wi' nowt.

An' reight enuff it war a pig,
If all they say is true,
Its length war five foot eight or nine,
Its height wor four foot two;
An' when it coom to th' pig hoil door,
He couldn't get it through,
Unless it went daan ov its knees,
An' that it wodn't do.

Then Billy's mother coomed to help,
An' hit it wi' a mop;
But thear it wor, an' thear it seem'd
Detarmined it 'ud stop;
But all at once it gave a grunt,
An' oppen'd sich a shop;
An' finding aat 'at it wor lick'd,
It laup'd clean ovver th' top.

His mother then shoo shook her heead,
An' pool'd a woeful face;
"William," shoo sed, "tha shouldn't bring
Sich things as theas to th' place.
Aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink
Thi mother i' disgrace;
But if tha buys sich things as thease
Aw'm feared it will be th' case!"

"Nah, mother, niver freat." sed Bill,
"Its one aw'm goin to feed,
Its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know,
But that's becoss o'th' breed;
If its a trifle long i'th' grooin,
Why hang it! niver heed!
Aw know its net a beauty,
_But its cheap, it is, indeed!"_

"Well time 'ul try," his mother sed,--
An' time at last did try;
For niver sich a hungry beeast
Had been fed in a sty.
"What's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, Billy!"
Wor th' neighbors' daily cry;
"Aw connot tell yo yet," sed Bill,
"Aw'll weigh it bye an' bye."

An' hard poor Billy persevered,
But all to noa avail,
It swallow'd all th' mait it could get,
An' wod ha' swallow'd th' pail;
But Billy took gooid care to stand
O'th' tother side o'th' rail;
But fat it didn't gain as mich
As what 'ud greeas its tail.

Pack after pack o' mail he bowt,
Until he'd bought fourteen;
But net a bit o' difference
I'th' pig wor to be seen:
Its legs an' snowt wor just as long
As iver they had been;
Poor Billy caanted rib bi rib
An' heaved a sigh between.

One day he, mix'd a double feed,
An' put it into th' troff;
"Tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed,
"Aw'll awther stawl thee off,
Or else aw'll brust thi hide--that is
Unless 'at its to toff!"
An' then he left it wol he went
His mucky clooas to doff.

It worn't long befoor he coom
To see ha matters stood;
He luk'd at th' troff, an' thear it wor,
Five simple bits o' wood,
As cleean scraped aat as if it had
Ne'er held a bit o' food;
"Tha slotch!" sed Bill, "aw do believe
Tha'd ait me if tha could."

Next day he browt a butcher,
For his patience had been tried,
An' wi a varry deeal to do,
Its legs wi rooap they tied;
An' then his shinin knife he drew
An' stuck it in its side--
It mud ha been a crockadile,
Bi th' thickness ov its hide.

But blooid began to flow, an' then
Its long legg'd race wor run;
They scalded, scraped, an' hung it up,
An' when it all wor done,
Fowk coom to guess what weight it wor,
And mony a bit o' fun
They had, for Billy's mother said
"It ought to weigh a ton."

Billy wor walkin up an' daan,
Dooin nowt but fume an' fidge!
He luk'd at th' pig--then daan he set,
I'th nook o'th' window ledge,
He saw th' back booan wor sticken aght,
Like th' thin end ov a wedge;
It luk'd like an' owd blanket
Hung ovver th' winterhedge.

His mother rooar'd an' th' wimmen sigh'd,
But th' chaps did nowt but laff;
Poor Billy he could hardly bide,
To sit an' hear ther chaff--
Then up he jumped, an' off he run,
But whear fowk niver knew;
An' what wor th' warst, when mornin' coom,
Th' deead pig had mizzled too.

Th' chaps wander'd th' country far an' near,
Until they stall'd thersen;
But nawther Billy nor his pig
Coom hooam agean sin then;
But oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet,
Near Shibden's ruined mill,
The gooast o' Billy an' his pig
May be seen runnin still.

Moral.

Yo fowk 'ats tempted to goa buy
Be careful what yo do;
Dooant be persuaded coss "its _cheap_,"
For if yo do yo'll rue;
Dooant think its lowerin to yor sen
To ax a friend's advice,
Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may be
Bowt dear at ony price.

Rejected.