Chapter III: Part 3

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 leeav all safe at last; A thaasand thunders shake the sky, An spare yo when they've past. Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease; Mak poverty yo're 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 i'th' end. Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght, An seeks whom to devour; But he's a saint, compared to some, 'At's th' luk to be i' power.

Fairly Weel-off.

Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,-- Ov drink aw seldom want a gill; Aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm, Should winds be cold or th' sun be warm.

Aw rarely have a sickly spell,-- Mi appetite aw'm fain to tell Ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me, Nowt ivver seems to disagree.

Aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,-- Sometimes aw laik a day or two,-- Mi wage is nobbut small, but yet, Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.

Mi wife, God bless her! ivvery neet Has slippers warmin for mi feet; An th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid, An th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made.

An th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed, Wi' health an happiness are blest; An th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen, Is th' grandest babby ivver seen.

Aw've friends, tho' humble like misen, They're gradely, upright, workin-men, They're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;-- They do what's reight as near's they con.

Aw tak small stock i' politics, For lib'ral shams an tooary tricks, Have made me daat 'em one an all;-- Ther words are big, but deeds are small.

Aw goa to th' chapil, yet confess Aw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less, For th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa, Ne'er seem in onny haste to goa.

To me, religion seems quite plain;-- Aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain, Aw do a kind act when aw can, An hooap to dee an honest man.

Aw hooap to live till old an gray, An when th' time comes to goa away, Aw feel convinced some place ther'll be, Just fit for sich a chap as me.

Green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars, Are treasures we can all call awrs, An when hooam is earth's fairest spot One should be thankful for his lot.

Aw'm nooan contented,--nay, net aw! Aw nivver con be tho' aw try; But aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have, An if aw for moor blessins crave, It's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns, To spare them my life's ups an daans.

Well, yo may laff, an sneerin say, Aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;-- Maybe aw am,--but yo'll agree, Ther's few fowk better off nor me.

A Warnin.

A'a dear, what it is to be big!
To be big i' one's own estimation,
To think if we shake a lawse leg,
'At th' world feels a tremblin sensation.
To fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill,
Wod be empty if we worn't in it,
'At th' universe wheels wod stand still,
If we should neglect things a minnit.

To be able to tell all we meet,
Just what they should do or leeav undone;
To be crammed full o' wisdom an wit,
Like a college professor throo Lundun.
To show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,--
To show whear philosifers blunder;
To prove parsons an doctors all quacks,
An strike men o' science wi' wonder.

But aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men,
'At strut along th' streets like a bantam,
Nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen,
For they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em.
At ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in,
Yo may find 'em booath humble an civil,
Wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din,
Bi yellin an raisin the devil.

A'a dear, what it is to be big!
But a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it,
For th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig,
An a thaasand to one doesn't know it.
Consait, aw have often heeard say,
Is war for a chap nor consumption,
An aw'll back a plain chap onny day,
To succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun.

My advice to young fowk is to try
To grow honestly better an wiser;
An yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,--
True merit's its own advertiser.
False colors yo'll seldom find fast,
An a mak-believe is but a bubble,
It's sure to get brussen at last,
An contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble.

To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester. Born at Hull, November, 1806. Died at Beeston, near Nottingham, March 13th, 1892.

Wallett, old friend! Thy way's been long;--
Few livin can luk farther back;
But tha has left, bi jest an song,
A sunny gleam along thy track.
Aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns,
Yet aw remember when a lad,
Sittin an listnin to thy yarns,
An thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had.

Full monny a lesson, quaintly towt,
Wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still;
Nor can aw call to mind ther's owt
Tha sed or did, to work me ill!
Noa laff tha raised do aw regret,--
Wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan,
Which had aw heeded, aw admit,
Aw should ha been a better man.

Aw'd like to meet thee once agean,
An clink awr glasses as of yore,
An hear thi rail at all things meean,
An praise an cheer the honest poor.
Aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld,
'At nobbut tha knows ha to tell;--
Unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;--
A'a dear! Aw'm growin owd misel.

We'st miss thee, Wallett, when tha goas,
(May that sad time be far away;
For when tha doffs thi motley clooas,
An pays that debt we all mun pay,)
We'st feel ther's one link less to bind,
Us to this 'vain an fleetin show,'
An we'st net tarry long behind,--
We may goa furst for owt we know.

Well,--if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,--
Noa moor enjoy thy social chat,--
Aw send thi from this distant land,
True friendship's greetin,--This is that.
May ivvery comfort earth can give,
Be thine henceforward to the end,
An tho' the sea divides, believe
Ther's one who's proud to call thee friend.

Lads an Lasses.

Lads an lasses lend yor ears
Unto an old man's rhyme,
Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers,
It's all a waste o' time.
Some little wisdom yo may gain,
Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget:
Soa blame me net for spaikin plain,
Yo'll find it's better net.

For yo, life's journey may be long,
Or it may end to-day;
Deeath gethers in the young an strong,
Along wi' th' old an gray.
Then nivver do an unkind thing,
Which yo will sure regret,
Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,--
Yo'll find it's better net.

If yo've a duty to get throo,
Goa at it with a will,
Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do,
That mak's it harder still.
Dooant think to-morn is time enuff
For what to-day is set,
Nor trust to others for ther help,
Yo'll find it's better net.

If little wealth falls to yor share,
Try nivver to repine;
But struggle on wi' thrift an' care,--
Some day the sun will shine.
It's better to be livin poor,
Than running into debt,
An bavin duns coom to yor door;--
Yo'll find it's better net.

When tempted bi some jolly friend,
To join him in a spree,
Remember sich things sometimes end
I' pain an misery.
Be firm an let temptations pass
As if they'd ne'er been met,
An nivver drain the sparklin glass;--
Yo'll find it's better net.

Mak trewth an honesty yor guide,
Tho' some may laff an rail,
Fear net, whativver ills betide,
At last yo must prevail.
Contented wi' yor portion be
Nor let yor heart be set,
On things below 'at fade an dee,--
Yo'll find it's better net.

A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,--bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,--
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,--
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat,--
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm;--
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,--
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;
Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,
To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,
An monny a tear shoo shed;
For shoo'd once had a darlin lad
But he, alas! wor dead.
This little waif seemed sent to cheer,
An fill her darlin's place;
An to her heart shoo prest him near,
An kissed his little face.

Matty's Reason.

"Nah, Matty! what meeans all this fuss?
Tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be;
Ther must be some reason, becoss
It used to be diff'rent wi' thee.

Aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoor
If aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain;
Ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer,
Tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein.

If tha's met wi' a hansomer chap,
Aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way;
But tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,--
If tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay.

But tha knows 'at for monny a wick
Aw've been savin mi brass to get wed;
An aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pick
Aght some chairs an a table an bed.

Aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart;
An tha seemed to be fain to ha booath;
But if its thi wish we should part,
To beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath.

An th' warst wish aw wish even yet,--
Is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;--
Gooid neet, Matty lass, nivver freeat,
Tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean."

"Nah, Jimmy lad, try to be cooil,--
Mi excuse tha may think is a funny en;
Aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil,
But thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion."
Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat,
Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet,
Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght
Wi' cold an wind an weet.
Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in
A little cosy bed,
An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin,
An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize, Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies A New Year's gift throo God. An happiness nah fills her heart, 'At wor wi' sorrow cleft; Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift. A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,--bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,--
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,--
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat,--
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm;--
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,--
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;
Then has him carried aght o'th' storm,
To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands,
An monny a tear shoo shed;
For shoo'd once had a darlin lad
But he, alas! wor dead.
This little waif seemed sent to cheer,
An fill her darlin's place;
An to her heart shoo prest him near,
An kissed his little face.

Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat,
Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet,
Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght
Wi' cold an wind an weet.
Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in
A little cosy bed,
An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin,
An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize,
Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod,
It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies
A New Year's gift throo God.
An happiness nah fills her heart,
'At wor wi' sorrow cleft;
Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part,
Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.

Uncle Ben.

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben
As ivver lived i'th' fowd:
He made a fortun for hissen,
An lived on't when he'r owd.
His yed wor like a snow drift,
An his face wor red an breet,
An his heart wor like a feather,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas
He'd worn sin aw wor bred;
An th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas,
An th' same hat for his yed;
His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing
Throo braik o' day till neet;
His conscience nivver felt a sting,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wod'nt swap his humble state
Wi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land;
He nivver wanted silver plate,
Nor owt 'at's rich an grand;
He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk
Drawn raand him ov a neet,
But he slept noa war for th' want o' that,
For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.

Owd fowk called him "awr Benny,"
Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"--
An th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad,"
Or what best pleased thersen.
A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face
When he heeard ther patterin feet,
For he loved to laik wi th' little bairns
An he did the thing 'at's reet.

He nivver turned poor fowk away
Uncared for throo his door;
He ne'er forgate ther wor a day
When he hissen wor poor;
An monny a face has turned to Heaven,
All glistenin wi' weet,
An prayed for blessins on owd Ben,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He knew his lease wor ommost spent,
He'd sooin be called away;
Yet he wor happy an content,
An waited th' comin day.
But one dark neet he shut his e'en,
An slept soa calm an sweet,
When mornin coom, th' world held one less,
'At did the thing 'at's reet.

A Hawporth.

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam? What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place. What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name; Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame. Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice, Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; Thear,--tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.

He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat, An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:-- A'a!--its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.

Th' Better Part.

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

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

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

Gold is a burden hard to carry, An tho' Dame Fortun 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 foorced to leeav 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 breeath gooas flickerin away, 'Aw'm 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.

Th' Lesser Evil.

Young Harry wor a single chap,
An wod have lots o' tin,
An monny a lass had set her cap,
This temptin prize to win.
But Harry didn't want a wife,
He'd rayther far be free;
An soa escape all care an strife
'At wedded couples see.
But when at last his uncle deed,
An left him all his brass,
'Twor on condition he should wed,
Some honest Yorksher lass.
Soa all his dreamin day an neet
Abaat what sprees he'd have;
He had to bury aght o'th' seet,
Deep in his uncle's grave.
To tak a wife at once, he thowt
Wor th' wisest thing to do,
Soa he lukt raand until he browt
His choice daan between two.
One wor a big, fine, strappin lass,
Her name wor Sarah Ann,
Her height an weight, few could surpass,
Shoo'r fit for onny man.
An t'other wor a little sprite,
Wi' lots o' bonny ways,
An little funny antics, like
A kitten when it plays.
An which to tak he could'nt tell,
He rayther liked 'em booath;
But if he could ha pleased hissen,
To wed one he'd be looath.
A wife he thowt an evil thing,
An sewer to prove a pest;
Soa after sometime studyin
He thowt th' least wod be th' best.
They sooin wor wed, an then he faand
He'd quite enuff to do,
For A'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand,
An tongue enuff for two.
An if he went aght neet or day,
His wife shoo went as weel;
He gat noa chonce to goa astray;--
Shoo kept him true as steel.
His face grew white, his heead grew bald,
His clooas hung on his rig,
He grew like one 'at's getten stall'd,
Ov this world's whirligig.
One day, he muttered to hissen,
"If aw've pickt th' lesser evil,
Th' poor chap 'at tackles Sarah Ann,
Will wish he'd wed the D---l."

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 ther's 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.

'Tis'nt them 'at promise freely,
Are mooast ready to fulfill;
An 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely
'At are last at top o'th' hill.

Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment,
Gaudy flaars awr e'en 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,
Nivver 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 strivin,
Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet;
Tho' we may be late arrivin,
Yet at last we'st come in reet.

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.

They all do it.

They're all buildin nests for thersen,
One bi one they goa fleetin away;
A suitable mate comes,--an then,
I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay.
Well,--it's folly for th' old en's to freeat,
Tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,--
An we sigh,--let a tear drop,--an yet,
We bless 'em, an give 'em a start.

They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt,
They've trubbles an trials to face;
I'th' futer they luk an see nowt
'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race.
Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think
Sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them,
They walk on uncertainty's brink,
An they see in each teardrop a gem.

Happy dreams 'at they had long ago,
Too sweet to believe---could be true,
Are realized nah, for _they know_
Th' world's pleasures wor made for them two.
We _know_ 'at it's all a mistak,
An we pity, an yet we can pray,
'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back
Wi' regret to that sweet weddin day.

God bless 'em! may happiness dwell,
I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot;
An if in a palace,--well,--well,--
Shall ther young love be ever forgot.
Nay,--nay,--tho' old Time runs his plough,
O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove;
May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow,
Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.

Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en!
Bless th' husband, who does weel his part;
Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been,
The joy an the pride ov ther heart.
May health an prosperity sit
At ther table soa long as they live!
An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ,
For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.

To Let.

Aw live in a snug little cot, An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt, Cloise by, in a big garden plot, Stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let."

Twelve month sin or somewhear abaat, A fine lukkin chap donned i' black, Coom an luk'd at it inside an aght An decided this mansion to tak.

Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove An masons, an joiners, an sweeps, An a blacksmith to fit up a cove, An bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps.

Ther wor painters, an glazzeners too, To mend up each bit ov a braik, An a lot 'at had nowt else to do, But to help some o'th t'others to laik.

Ther wor fires i' ivvery range, They nivver let th' harston get cooiled, Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change, An ivverything all in a mooild.

Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall, Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; He tells me to do it mysel.

This hall lets for fifty a year, Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; When th' day come mi rent's allus thear, An that's a gooid thing in its way.

At th' last all th' repairers had done, An th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.

Then th' furnitur started to come, Waggon looads on it, all spankin new, Rich crimson an gold covered some, Wol some shone i' scarlet an blue.

Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, An picturs enuff for a show? They fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure, Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.

One day when a cab drove to th' gate, Th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife, (An tawk abaat fashion an state! Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.)

Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, An aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;" As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "A'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass."

Ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs, An grocers, an milkmen, an snips, All seekin for orders an jobs, An sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.

Aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day, "Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike? Each wick aw'm expected to pay," "Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."

Things went on like this, day bi day, For somewhear cloise on for a year; Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way, Altho' aw wor livin soa near.

But one neet when aw'd finished mi wark, An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, A chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.

Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "Them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "They've bolted an diddled us cleean."

Aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word, He cursed as he put on his hat, An he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, An paid nubdy owt, an that's what."

He left, an aw crept off to bed, Next day aw'd a visit throo Ike, But aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."

Ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let," An aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, Tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me.

But aw let 'em do just as they pleease, Aw'm content tho' mi station is low, An awm thankful sich hard times as thease If aw manage to pay what aw owe.

This precept, friends, nivver forget, For a wiser one has not been sed, Be detarmined to rise aght o' debt Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed.

Lost Love.

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass,
Her e'en as black as sloas;
Her hair a flyin thunner claad,
Her cheeks a blowin rooas.
Her smile coom like a sunny gleam
Her cherry lips to curl;
Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream
'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own,
But nah mi love is crost;
An aw mun wander on alooan,
An mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw could'nt ax her to be mine, Wi' poverty at th' door: Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine Wi' love for one so poor; */ 92 */ But nah ther's summat i' mi breast, Tells me aw miss'd mi way: An lost that lass I loved the best Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn,
An oft i'th' dark o'th' neet,
Aw've knelt mi daan i'th' loin to find
Prints ov her tiny feet.
An under th' window, like a thief,
Aw've crept to hear her spaik;
An then aw've hurried hooam agean
For fear mi heart wod braik.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Another bolder nor misen,
Has robb'd me o' mi dear;
An nah aw ne'er may share her joy,
An ne'er may dry her tear.
But tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad,
An tho' hope's star is set;
To know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'd
Wod mak me happy yet.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c.

Drink.

When yo see a chap covered wi' rags,
An hardly a shoe to his fooit,
Gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags,
Wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit;
An he tells yo he's aght ov a job,
An he feels wellny likely to sink,--
An he hasn't a coin in his fob,
Yo may guess what he's seekin--it's Drink.

If a woman yo meet, poorly dressed,
Untidy, an spoortin black e'en;
Wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast,
Neglected an shame-to-be-seen;
If yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true,
What's th' cause of her trouble? Aw think,
Yo'll find her misfortuns are due
To that warst o' all enemies,--Drink.

Ax th' wretches convicted o' crime,
What caused 'em to plunge into sin,
An they'll say ommost ivvery time,
It's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin.
Even th' gallus, if it could but tell
Ov its victims dropt ovver life's brink;
It wod add a sad lot moor to swell
The list ov those lost throo strong Drink.

Yet daily we thowtlessly pass,
The hell-traps 'at stand like a curse;
Bedizened wi' glitter an glass,
To mak paupers, an likely do worse.
Some say 'at th' millenium's near,
But they're reckonin wrang aw should think,
When they fancy the King will appear,
In a world soa besotted wi' Drink.

Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.)

Th' mooin shone breet wi' silver leet,
An th' wind wor softly sighin;
Th' burds did sleep, an th' snails did creep,
An th' buzzards wor a flying;
Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on,
An th' buttercups wor weary,
When Jenny went to meet her John,
Her Rifleman, her dearie.

Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad
As iver held a rifle,
An if ther wor owt in him bad,
'Twor nobbut just a trifle.
He wore a suit o' sooity grey,
To show 'at he wor willin
To feight for th' Queen and country
When perfect in his drillin.

His heead wor raand, his back wor straight,
His legs wor long an steady,
His fist wor fully two pund weight,
His heart wor true an ready;
His upper lip wor graced at th' top
Wi' mustache strong an bristlin,
It railly wor a spicy crop;
Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war,
He long'd for battles' clatter,
He grieved to think noa foeman dar
To cross that sup o' watter;
He owned one spot,--an nobbut one,
Within his heart wor tender,
An as his darlin had it fun,
He'd be her bold defender.

At neet he donn'd his uniform,
War trials to endure,
An helped his comrades brave, to storm
A heap ov horse manure!
They said it wor a citidel,
Fill'd wi' some hostile power,
They boldly made a breach, and well
They triumph'd in an hour.

They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid,
(That spoils one's britches sadly,)
But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid,
An scented 'em as badly;
Ther wor noa slain to hug away,
Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin,
They lived to feight another day,
An spend ther neets i' rantin.

Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loin
Where all wor dark an shaded,
Part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slime
But quickly on he waded;
An nah an then he cast his e'e
An luk'd behund his shoulder.
He worn't timid, noa net he!
He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."

But once he jumped, an sed "Oh dear!"
Becoss a beetle past him;
But still he wor unknown to fear,
He'd tell yo if yo asked him.
He could'nt help for whispering once,
"This loin's a varry long un,
A chap wod have but little chonce
Wi thieves, if here amang 'em."

An all at once he heeard a voice
Cry out, "Stand and deliver!
Your money or your life, mak choice,
Before your brains I shiver;"
He luk'd all raand, but failed to see
A sign of livin craytur,
Then tremlin dropt upon his knee,
Fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur.

"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak,
Mi belts, mi ammunition,
Aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi back
Oh pity mi condition;
Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass,
Aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin;
Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass,
At Tate's berry garden."

"Aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where,
Its her fault aw've to suffer;"
Just then a whisper in his ear
Said, "Johnny, thar't a duffer,"
He luk'd, an' thear cloise to him stuck
Wor Jenny, burst wi' lafter;
"A'a, John," shoo says, "Aw've tried thi pluck,
Aw'st think o' this at after."

"An when tha tells what things tha'll do,
An booasts o' manly courage,
Aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do,
Go hooam an get thi porrige."
"Why Jenny wor it thee," he sed,
"Aw fancied aw could spy thi,
Aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid,
Aw did it but to try thi."

"Just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis
Aw hear thi heart a beatin,
An tak this claat to wipe thi phiz,
Gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin.
Thar't brave noa daat, an tha can crow
Like booastin cock-a-doodle,
But nooan sich men for me, aw vow,
When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'"

Plenty o' Brass.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
It's grand to be able to spend
A trifle sometimes on a glass
For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend.
To be able to bury yor neive
Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd,
An, 'baght pinchin, be able to save
A wee bit for th' time when yo're owd.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
To be able to set daan yor fooit
Withaat ivver thinkin--bi'th' mass!
'At yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit.
To be able to walk along th' street,
An stand at shop windows to stare,
An net ha to beat a retreat
If yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
To be able to goa hooam at neet,
An sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass,
An want nawther foir nor leet.
To tak th' childer a paper o' spice,
Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall;
Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice
For yor friends, if they happen to call.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
Then th' parsons'll know where yo live;
If yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass,
An call where fowk's summat to give.
Yo may have a trifle o' sense,
An yo may be booath upright an trew,
But that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expense
Ov a whole or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass!
An to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard,
This world seems as smooth as a glass,
An ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad;
But him 'at's as poor as a maase,
Or, happen, a little i' debt,
He mun point his nooas up to th' big haase,
An be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink!
But dooan't let it harden yor heart:
Yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think
An try to do gooid wi' a part!
An then, as yo're totterin' daan,
An th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass,
Yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan
Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.

The New Year's Resolve.

Says Dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed,
For th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life,
An aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed,
If aw knew who to get for a wife.

Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass,
For aw've nawther to booast on misel;
What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass,
An ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.

To be single is all weel enuff nah an then,
But it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes;
For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men;
They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.

An aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done,
Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit;
An th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run,
An mi back warks as if it 'ud split.

Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best;
Soa one day aw bethowt me to try,
But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast,
Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.

Aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me!
Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think;
Aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see,
An saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.

But a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare
Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had;
For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare,
An thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad.

Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell,
Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined,
Talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel,
Afoor shoo can alter her mind."

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; Bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten three Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rayther 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 could 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 owd 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 enuff!"

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 cap't 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, An put thi hand upon thi heart, For tha may 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 wea'nt 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 minnit 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, Throo morn to neet they keep ther brains, For ivver swimmin, An if a bit o' sense remains, It's fun i'th wimmen.

Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, Nor yet misen 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 Throo love o'th' bottle: Wol others think to win salvation Wi' bein 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 deead 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 parsons 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 throo, 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.

What Wor it?

What wor it made me love thee, lass? Aw connot tell; Aw know it worn't for thi brass;-- Tho' poor misel Aw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt, An what _aw_ had wor next to nowt.

Aw didn't love thi 'coss thi face Wor fair to see: For tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place, An as for me, They called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop," An sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop.

Aw used to read i' Fairy books Ov e'en soa breet, Ov gowden hair, angelic looks, An smiles soa sweet; Aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown, Aw'd claim some lovely Fairy for mi own.

An weel aw recollect that neet,-- 'Twor th' furst o'th' year, Aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet, An aw'd a fear Lest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat, An be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat.

What fun they made, when we went in;-- They cried, "Yo're catched!" An then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din "They're fairly matched, An beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say, An they've booath been gooid childer, onyway."

An then aw saw a little tear, Unbidden flow, That settled it!--for then an thear Aw seemed to know, 'At we wor meant to share each others lot, An Fancy's Fairies all could goa to pot.

Full thirty years have rolled away, Sin that rough time; What won mi love aw connot say, But this is mine, To know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee, But pray, whativver made thee fancy me?

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig,
Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say;
An monny a mile he had to trig
One sweltin' summer day;
But Billy didn't care a fig,
He sed 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 aght,
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?
Whativver 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 wor a pig,
If all they say is true,
Its length wor 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 throo,
Unless it went daan ov its knees,
An that it wodn't do.

Then Billy's mother coom 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 aght 'at it wor lick'd,
It laup'd cleean ovver th' top.

His mother then shoo shook her heead,
An pool'd a woeful face;
"William," shoo sed, "tha should'nt 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, nivver freat," sed Bill,
"Its one aw'm gooin 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! nivver 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 nivver 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 tuk 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 bowt fourteen;
But net a bit o' difference
I'th' pig wor to be seen:
Its legs an snowt wor just as long
As ivver 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 hah matters stood;
He luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor,
Five simple bits o' wood,
As cleean scraped aght 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,
An monny a bit o' fun
They had, for Billy's mother sed,
"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 stickin 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 nivver knew;
An what wor th' war'st, 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 'at's tempted to goa buy
Be careful what yo do;
Dooant be persuaded 'coss "it's _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 onny price.

Aght o' Wark.

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,
An aw can't get a day's wark to do!
Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick
An aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.

Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam,
An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,
For they think it's high time aw should come,
An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case
When th' cubbord is empty an bare;
When want's stamped o' ivvery face,
An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street,
Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;
An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet,
For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel,
Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,
Had nivver known th' want of a meal,
Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare,
Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;
But ther maisters forget they should care
For a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet,
An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar,
An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet,
But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,
Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;
An unless we can get it o'th' strap,
We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs
To them three little lambs an ther dam;--
Aw wish they wor horses or dogs,
For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.

But they say ther is One 'at can see,
An has promised to guide us safe throo;
Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee,
He'll find a chap summat to do.

That's a Fact.