Chapter V: Part 5

Poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown
An fowk call us old fashioned an odd;
But monny's the storm we have met sin that day,
When aw bowt thee all shiny an snod.
As aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo,
Fowk's manners wor cappin to see;
An aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,'
But aw know nah they nodded at thee.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside,
For awr friendship has lasted too long;
Tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride,
Tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng.
Dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind,
If another aw put i thi place;
For aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind,
Tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be,
Aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen;
An be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee
An have nubdy to care for me then.
But one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel,
An tha gave thi best days to mi use;
Noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel,
For aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door,
Tha may happen be punced abaat th' street,
For like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor,
It wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet.
Wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big brass,
An fowk rave ov antique this an that,
An they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas!
Ther's nubdy respects an old hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do,
To burn thi aw havnt the heart,
If aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo,
An thart seedy enuff as tha art.
Tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead,
Soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin,
For aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead,
An aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot,
If thart useful what moor can ta be?
Better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot,
An remember thart useful to me.
Though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized,
Tha but does what all earthly things must,
For though we live honored, or perish despised,--
We're at last but a handful o' dust.

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 spice-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 heeard 'at it's sed,
'At it's sure to breed trouble an strife;
If it does aw'm net baan to throw up,
Though awd 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 e'en 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.

What it is to be a 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 they say.

They say 'at its a waste o' brass--a nasty habit too,-- A thing 'at noa reight-minded chap wod ivver think to do; Maybe they're reight; They say it puts one's brains to sleep, an maks a felly daft,-- Aw've hearken'd to ther doctrins, then aw've lit mi pipe an laft, At ther consait.

At morn when startin for mi wark, a bit o' bacca's sweet, An aw raillee should'nt like to be withaat mi pipe at neet, It comforts me. An if awm worritted an vext, wi' bothers durin th' day, Aw tak a wiff, an in a claad, aw puff 'em all away, An off they flee.

They tell me its a poison, an its bad effects they show; Aw nivver contradict 'em but aw think its varry slow, An bad to tell; They say it leeads to drinkin, an drink leeads to summat war; But aw know some at nivver smook 'at's getten wrang as far As me misel.

They say its an example 'at we did'nt owt to set,-- For owt 'at's nowt young fowk sooin leearn, but dooant soa sooin forget, That's varry true. But aw shall be contented, if when comes mi time to dee, To smook a pipe o' bacca is th' warst thing they've lent throo me: Aw'st manage throo,

They say it maks one lazy, an time slips by unawares,-- It may be soa, an if it is, that's noa consarn o' theirs; Aw work mi share. If it prevents fowk meddlin wi' th' affairs ov other men, 'Twod happen be as weel, aw think, if they'd to smook thersen;-- They've time to spare.

But what they say ne'er matters, for aw act upon a plan, If th' world affooards a pleasure awll enjoy it if aw can, At morn or neet; They may praich agean mi bacca, an may looad it wi' abuse, But aw think its a gooid crayter if its put to a gooid use. Pass me a leet.

Young Jockey.

Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, Ooin, ooin, ry diddle dooin! Young Jockey he bowt him a pair o' new shooin, For he'd made up his mind he'd be wed varry sooin; An he went to ax Jenny his wife for to be, But shoo sed, "Nay, aw'll ne'er wed a hawbuck like thee, Thi legs luk too lanky, Thi heead is too cranky, Its better bi th' hawf an old maid aw should dee!"

Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, Un, un, ry diddle dun! Young Jockey then went an he bowt him a gun, For his ivvery hooap i' this wide world wor done; An he went an tell'd Jenny, to end all his pains, He'd made up his mind 'at he'd blow aght his brains, But shoo cared net a pin, An shoo sed wi' a grin,-- "Befoor they're blown aght tha man get some put in."

Missed his Mark.

Aw like fowrk to succeed i' life if they've an honest aim, An even if they chonce to trip awm varry loath to blame; Its sich a simple thing sometimes maks failure or success, Th' prize oft slips by strugglin men to them 'at's striven less. Aw envy nubdy Fortun's smiles, aw lang for 'em misen,-- But them at win her favors should dispense 'em nah an then. An them 'at's blest wi' sunshine let 'em think o' those i'th' dark, An nivver grudge a helpin hand to him 'at's missed his mark.

We connot allus hit it,--an ther's monny a toilin brain, Has struggled for a lifetime, but its efforts proved in vain; An monny a hardy son ov toil has worn his life away, An all his efforts proved in vain to keep poverty at bay; Wol others, bi a lucky stroke, have carved ther way to fame, An ivvery thing they've tackled on has proved a winnin' game; Let those who've met wi' fav'rin winds to waft-life's little bark, Just spare a thowt, an gie a lift, to him 'at's missed his mark.

Aw hate to hear a purse-praad chap keep booastin of his gains,-- Sneerin at humble workin fowk who're richer far i' brains! Aw hate all meean hard graspin slaves, who mak ther gold ther god,-- For if they could grab all ther is, awm pratty sewer they wod. Aw hate fowk sanctimonious, whose humility is pride, Who, when they see a chap distressed, pass by on tother side! Aw hate those drones 'at share earth's hive, but shirk ther share o' wark, Yet curl ther nooas at some poor soul, who's toiled, yet missed his mark.

Give me that man whose heart can feel for others griefs an woes;-- Who loves his friends an nivver bears a grudge ageean his foes; Tho' kindly words an cheerin smiles are all he can bestow,-- If he gives that wi' willin heart, he does some gooid below. An when th' time comes, as come it will, when th' race is at an end, He'll dee noa poorer for what gooid he's ivver done a friend. An when they gently put him by,--unconscious, stiff an stark, His epetaph shall be, 'Here's one 'at didn't miss his mark.'

When Lost.

If at hooam yo have to tew,
Though yor comforts may be few,
An yo think yore lot is hard, and yor prospects bad;
Yo may swear ther's nowt gooas reight,
Wi' yor friends an wi' yor meyt,
But yo'll nivver know ther vally till j'o've lost em, lad.

Though yo've but a humble cot,
An yore share's a seedy lot;
Though yo goa to bed i'th dumps, an get up i'th mornin mad,
Yet yo'll find its mich moor wise,
What yo have to fondly prize,
For yo'll nivver know ther vally till yo've lost em, lad.

Mak a Gooid Start.

Let's mak a gooid start, nivver fear
What grum'lers an growlers may say;
That nivver need cause yo a tear,
For whear ther's a will ther's a way.
If yo've plenty to ait an to drink,
Nivver heed, though yor wark may be rough;
If yo'll nobbut keep hooapful, aw think,
Yo'll find th' way to mend plain enuff.

If yor temper gets saar'd an cross,
An yor mind is disturbed an perplext;
Or if troubled wi' sickness an loss,
An yor poverty maks yo feel vext;--
Nivver heed! for its fooilish to freeat
Abaat things at yo connot prevent;
An i'th futer ther may be a treeat,
'At'll pay for all th' sad days you've spent,

I' this new life beginnin,--who knows
What for each on us may be i' stoor?
For th' river o' Time as it flows,
Weshes th' threshold o' ivvery man's door.
At some it leeavs little, may be,
An at others deposits a prize;
But if yo be watchful yo'll see
Ther's a trifle for each one 'at tries.

Ther's a time booath to wish an decide;--
For a chap at ne'er langs nivver tews;--
If yo snuff aght ambition an pride,
Yo sink a chap's heart in his shoes,
Wish for summat 'at's honest an reight,
An detarmine yo'll win it or dee!
Yo'll find obstacles slink aght o'th gate,
An th' black claads o' daat quickly flee.

Young men should seek labor an gains,
Old men wish for rest an repose;--
Young lasses want brave, lovin swains,
An hanker for th' finest o' clooas.
Old wimmin,--a cosy foirside,
An a drop o' gooid rum i' ther teah;
Little childer, a horse they can ride,
Or a dolly to nurse o' ther knee.

One thing a chap cant do withaat,
Is a woman to share his estate;
An mooast wimmen, ther isn't a daat,
Think life a dull thing baght a mate.
Ther's a sayin booath ancient an wise,
An its one at should be acted upon;--
Yo'll do weel, to accept its advice,--
To, "Begin as yo meean to goa on."

Stop at Hooam.

"Tha wodn't goa an leave me, Jim,
All lonely by mysel?
My een at th' varry thowts grow dim--
Aw connot say farewell.

Tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless
Tha saw me every day,
An' said tha knew noa happiness
When aw wor foorced away.

An th' tales tha towld, I know full weel,
Wor true as gospel then;
What is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel
Soa strange--unlike thisen?

Ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find,
I'th taan whear tha wor born,
To mak a livin, if tha'll mind
To ha' faith i' to-morn.

Aw've mony a time goan to mi wark
Throo claads o' rain and sleet;
All's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark,
It ommust mud be neet.

But then, when braikfast time's come raand,
Aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray,
An' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk
Like skulkin lads away.

An' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet
Aw've sowt some shade to rest,
An' as aw've paddled hooam at neet,
Glorious it's sunk i'th west.

An' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee,
(An' trouble's hard to bide),
Have patience, lad, an' wait an' see
What's hid o'th' tother side.

If aw wor free to please mi mind,
Aw'st niver mak this stur;
But aw've a mother ommust blind,
What mud become o' her?

Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik
An' helpless ivery limb,
Aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik
If aw'd to leave her, Jim.

Aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees
'At tower up to th' sky,
An' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze,
Lie glitterin' jewels fly.

Woll th' music of a shepherd's reed
May gently float along,
Lendin its tender notes to lead
Some fair maid's simple song;

An' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side,
Such as we niver see;
But here at hooam, at ivery stride,
There's flaars for thee an' me.

Aw care net for ther suns soa breet,
Nor warblin melody;
Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet
Saands sweeter, lad, to me.

An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan,
A claat is noa disgrace;
Tha'll niver find a heart moor warm
Beat under silk or lace.

Then settle daan, tak my advice,
Give up this wish to rooam!
An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice
Worth stoppin' for at hooam."

"God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e,
An' gi'e us howd thi hand!
For words like thoase, throo sich as thee,
What mortal could withstand!

It isn't mich o'th' world aw know,
But aw con truly say,
A faithful heart's too rich to throw
Withaat a thowt away.

So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan,
Aw'll tew for thine and thee,
An' seek for comfort when cast daan,
I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e."

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,
Whearivver 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.

Jockey an Dolly.

Th' sun shone breet at early morn,
Burds sang sweetly on the trees;
Larks wor springin from the corn,
Tender blossoms sowt the breeze.
Jockey whistled as he went
O'er rich meadows wet wi' dew;
In his breast wor sweet content,
For his wants an cares were few.
Dolly passed him on his way,
Fresh an sweet an fair wor she;
Jockey lost his heart that day,
To the maid ov Salterlee.
Jockey an Dolly
Had allus been jolly,
Till Love shot his arrow an wounded the twain;
Their days then pass sadly,
Yet man an maid madly,
In spite ov the torture, they nursed the sweet pain.

Since that day did jockey pine,
Dolly shyly kept apart;
Still shoo milk'd her willin kine,
Tho' shoo nursed a braikin heart,
But one neet they met i'th' fold,
When a silv'ry mooin did shine;
Jockey then his true love told,
An he axt, "will't thou be mine?"
Tears ov joy filled Dolly's een,
As shoo answered modestly;
Dolly nah is Jockey's queen,
Th' bonniest wife i' Salterlee.
Jockey an Dolly,
Are livin an jolly,
May blessins for ivver attend i' ther train;
Ther days they pass gladly,
Noa moor they feel sadly,
For two hearts are for ivver bound fast i' Love's chain.

Dooant Forget the Old Fowks.

Dooant forget the old fowks,--
They've done a lot for thee;
Remember tha'd a mother once,
Who nursed thi on her knee.
A father too, who tew'd all day
To mak thi what tha art,
An dooant forget tha owes a debt,
An strive to pay a part.

Just think ha helpless once tha wor,--
A tiny little tot;
But tha wor given th' cosiest nook
I' all that little cot.
Thy ivvery want wor tended to,
An soothed thy ivvery pain,
They didn't spare love, toil or care,
An they'd do it o'er ageean.
An all they crave for what they gave,
Is just a kindly word;--
A fond "God bless yo parents,"
Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c.

Tha's entered into business nah,--
Tha'rt dooin pratty weel;
Tha's won an tha desarves success,--
Aw know tha'rt true as steel.
Tha'rt growin rich, an lives i' style,
Tha's sarvents at thi call;
But dooant forget thi mother, lad,
To her tha owes it all.
Thi father totters in his walk,
His hair is growin grey;
He cannot work as once he did,
He's ommost had his day.
But th' heart 'at loved thi when a child,
Is still as warm an true;
His pride is in his lad's success,--
He hopes tha loves him too.
But what they long for mooast ov all,
Is just that kindly word,
"God bless yo, my dear parents!"
Wod be th' sweetest saand they've heard.

Then dooant forget the old fowks, &c,

Soa Bonny.

Aw've travell'd o'er land, an aw've travell'd o'er sea, An aw've seen th' grandest lasses 'at ivver can be; But aw've nivver met one 'at could mak mi heart glad, Like her,--for oh! shoo wor bonny mi lad.

Shoo wornt too gooid, for her temper wor hot, An when her tongue started, shoo wag'd it a lot; An it worn't all pleasant, an some on it bad, But oh! shoo wor bonny!--soa bonny mi lad.

Consaited and cocky, an full o' what's nowt, An shoo'd say nasty things withaat ivver a thowt; An shood try ivvery way, just to mak me get mad;--- For shoo knew shoo wor bonny,--soa bonny mi lad.

Fowk called me a fooil to keep hingin araand, But whear shoo'd once stept aw could worship the graand; For th' seet ov her face cheer'd mi heart when 'twor sad, For shoo wor soa bonny,--soa bonny mi lad.

But shoo wor like th' rest,--false,--false in her heart; Shoo made me to love her,--an Cupid's sharp dart Wor nobbut her fun,--wi' decait it wor clad;-- But then, shoo wor bonny;--soa bonny mi lad.

Shoo sooin wed another,--noa better nor me, An aw hooap shoo'll be happy, though my life is dree; An aw'll try to submit, though shoo treated me bad, But oh! mi poor heart is nigh brokken mi lad.

Ther may come a time when her passion has cooiled, Shoo may think ov a chap shoo unfeelingly fooiled; Shoo may seek me agean;--if shoo does,--well, by gad! Aw'll welcome her back. Shoo's soa bonny mi lad.

The Linnet.

Little linnet,--stop a minnit,--
Let me have a tawk with thee:
Tell me what this life has in it,
Maks thee seem so full o' glee?
Why is pleasure i' full measure,
Thine throo rooasy morn to neet,
Has ta fun some wondrous treasure,
Maks thi be for ivver breet?

----------

Sang the linnet,--"wait a minnit,
Let me whisper in thine ear;
Life has lots o' pleasure in it,
Though a shadow's oftimes near.
Ivvery shoolder has its burden,
Ivvery heart its weight o' care;
But if bravely yo accept it,
Duty finds some pleasure thear.
Lazy louts dooant know what rest is,--
Those who labor find rest sweet;
Grumling souls ne'er know what best is,--
Blessins wither 'neath ther feet.
Sorrow needs noa invitation,--
Joy is shy an must be sowt;
Grief seeks onny sitiwation,--
Willin to accept for nowt.
All pure pleasure is retirin,
Allus modest,--shrinkin,--shy,--
Like a violet,--but goa seek it,
An yo'll find it by-an-bye.
Birds an blossoms,--shaars an sunshine,
Strive to cheer man on his way;
An its nobbut them 'at willn't,
'At cant taste some joy each day.
Awm a teeny little songster,--
All mi feathers plainly grave;
But aw wish noa breeter plumage,
Awm content wi' what aw have.
An mi mate is just as lovin,
An he sings as sweet to me,--
An his message nivver varies,--
'Love me love, as aw love thee.'
An together, o'er awr nestlins,
We keep watch, i' hooaps to see,
They may sooin share in awr gladness
Full ov love,--from envy free.
Grumbler,--cast a look araand thi;--
Is this world or thee to blame?
Joys an blessins all surraand thi,--
Dar to grummel?--fie,--for shame!"

----------

An that linnet, in a minnit,
Flitted off, the trees among;
An those joys its heart had in it,
Ovverflowed i' limpid song.
An it left me sittin, blinkin,
As it trill'd its nooats wi glee;--
An truly,--to my way o' thinkin,
Th' linnet's far moor sense nor me.

Mary Jane.

One Easter Mundy, for a spree, To Bradforth, Mary Jane an me, Decided we wod tak a jaunt, An have a dinner wi mi hont; For Mary Jane, aw'd have yo know, Had promised me, some time ago, To be mi wife,--an soa aw thowt Aw'd introduce her, as aw owt. Mi hont wor pleeased to see us booath,-- To mak fowk welcome nivver looath,-- An th' table grooaned wi richest fare, An one an all wor pressed to share, Mi sweetheart made noa moor to do. Shoo buckled on an sooin gate throe; Mi hont sed, as shoo filled her glass,-- "Well, God bless thi belly, lass!"

Mi Mary Jane is quite genteel, Shoo's fair an slim, an dresses weel; Shoo luks soa delicate an fair, Yo'd fancy shoo could live on air. But thear yo'd find yor judgment missed, For shoo's a mooast uncommon twist; Whear once shoo's called to get a snack, It's seldom at they've axt her back. To a cookshop we went one neet, An th' stuff at vanished aght o'th' seet, Made th' chap at sarved us gape an grin, But shoo went on an tuckt it in; An when aw axt ha mich we'd had, He sed, "It's worth five shillin, lad." Aw sighed as aw put daan mi brass,-- "Well, God bless thi belly lass!"

But when a lass's een shine bright, Yo ne'er think ov her appetite; Her love wor what aw lang'd to gain, Nor did mi efforts prove in vain, For we wor wed on Leeds Fair Day, An started life on little pay. But aw've noa reason to regret, Her appetite shoo keeps up yet. Eight years have passed sin shoo wor mine, An nah awr family numbers nine. A chap when wedded life begins, Seldom expects a brace o' twins; But Mary Jane's browt that for me,-- Shoo's nursin th' last pair on her knee; An as aw th' bowls o' porrige pass, Aw say, "God bless thi belly lass!"

We have noa wealth i' gold or lands, But cheerful hearts, an willin hands; Altho soa monny maaths to fill, We live i' hooaps an labor still. Ther little limbs when stronger grown, Will be a fortun we shall own. We're in a mooild thro morn to neet, But rest comes to us doubly sweet, An fowk learn patience, yo can bet, When they've to care for sich a set. But we can honestly declare, Ther isn't one at we can spare. Ther little tricks cause monny a smile, An help to leeten days o' toil. An joyfully aw say, "Bith' mass! Well, God bless thi childer, lass."

My Lass.

Fairest lass amang the monny,
Hair as black as raven, O.
Net another lass as bonny,
Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.
City lasses may be fairer,
May be donned i' silks an laces,
But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer,
Nooan can show sich bonny faces.
Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre,
Show thou art no craven, O;
In thy strains 'at mooast inspire,
Sing the praise ov Craven, O.

Purest breezes toss their tresses,
Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O,
An old Sol wi' warm caresses,
Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O.
Others may booast birth an riches,
May have studied grace ov motion,
But they lack what mooast bewitches,--
Hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion.
Perfect limbs an round full bosoms,
Sich as set men ravin, O,
Only can be faand i' blossoms,
Sich as bloom i' Craven, O,

An amang the fairest,--sweetest,
Ther's net sich a brave en, O;
For her beauty's the completest,
Yo can find i' Craven, O.
Ivvery charm 'at mother Nature
Had to give, shoo placed upon her,---
Modest ways, an comely feature--
Health ov body,--soul ov honor
Isn't shoo a prize worth winnin?
An a gem worth savin, O?
Smile on,--sooin yo'll stop yor grinnin,
When my lass leeaves Craven, O.

A Gooid Kursmiss Day.

It wor Kursmiss day,--we wor ready for fun, Th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done; Th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin, An th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in. Th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas, An th' lasses,--they each luckt as sweet as a rooas; An th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob, An th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob, An aw sed, "Nah, old lass, Tho we havn't mich brass, We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

Th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock, Yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock, But we winkt one at tother as mich as to say, They mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay. Then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside, An they couldn't ha made mich moor din if they'd tried, For they skriked an they giggled an shaated like mad, An th' wife sed, "They're happy," an aw sed, "Awm glad, An be thankful old lass, Tho we havn't mich brass, We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

When twelve o'clock struck, th' wife says "aw'll prepare, An ov ivvery gooid thing they shall all have a share; But aw think some o'th' lasses should help me for once," An aw answered, "ov coorse,--they'll be glad ov a chonce." Soa aw went to call em, but nivver a sign Could aw find o' them strackle-brained childer o' mine; An when th' wife went ith' cellar for th' puddin an th' beef, An saw th' oppen winder, it filled her wi grief, An shoo sed, "nay old lad, This is rayther too bad, We can't celebrate Kursmiss to-day,"

Aw went huntin raand, an ith' weshus aw faand, Some bits o' cold puddin, beef, spicecake an cheese; Then aw heard a big shaat, an when aw lukt agivt, Them taistrels wor laffin as hard as yo pleeas. Aw felt rayther mad,--but ov coorse awm ther dad, An as it wor Kursmiss aw tuk it as fun; But what made me capt, wor th' ale worn't tapt, Soa mi old wife an me stuck to that wol 'twor done. An aw railly did feel We enjoyed ussen weel, An we had a gooid Kursmiss that day.

Mi Love's Come Back.

Let us have a jolly spree, An wi' joy an harmonie, Let the merry moments flee, For mi love's come back. O, the days did slowly pass, When awd lost mi little lass, But nah we'll have a glass, For mi love's come back.

O, shoo left me in a hig, An shoo didn't care a fig, But nah aw'll donce a jig, For mi love's come back, An aw know though far away, 'At her heart ne'er went astray, An awst ivver bless the day, For mi love's come back.

When shoo axt me yesterneet, What made mi een soa breet? Aw says, "Why cant ta see'ts 'Coss mi love's come back," Then aw gave her sich a kiss, An shoo tuk it nooan amiss;-- An awm feeard awst brust wi bliss, For mi love's come back.

Nah, awm gooin to buy a ring, An a creddle an a swing, Ther's noa tellin what may spring, Nah, mi love's come back; O, aw nivver thowt befooar, 'At sich joy could be i' stooar, But nah aw'll grieve noa moor, For mi love's come back.

A Wife.

Who is it, when one starts for th' day A cheerin word is apt to say, At sends yo leeter on yor way? A wife.

An who, when th' wark is done at neet, Sits harknin for yor clogs i'th' street, An sets warm slippers for yor feet? A wife.

An who, when yo goa weary in, Bids th' childer mak a little din, An smiles throo th' top o'th' heead to th' chin? A wife.

An who, when troubled, vext an tried, Comes creepin softly to yor side, An soothes a grief 'at's hard to bide? A wife.

An when yor ommost driven mad, Who quiets yo daan, an calls yo "lad," An shows yo things are nooan soa bad? A wife.

Who nivver once forgets that day, When yo've to draw yor bit o' pay, But comes to meet yo hawf o'th' way? A wife.

Who is it, when yo hooamward crawl, Taks all yo have, an thinks it small; Twice caants it, an says, "Is this all?" A wife.

All Tawk.

Some tawk becoss they think they're born
Wi' sich a lot o' wit;
Some seem to tawk to let fowk know
They're born withaat a bit.
Some tawk i' hooaps 'at what they say
May help ther fellow men;
But th' inooast 'at tawk just tawk becoss
They like to hear thersen.

Aw Can't Tell.

Aw nivver rammel mich abaat,
Aw've summat else to do;
But yet aw think, withaat a daat,
Aw've seen a thing or two.

One needn't leeav his native shoor,
An visit foreign lands,--
At hooam he'll find a gooid deeal moor
Nor what he understands.

Aw can't tell why a empty heead
Should be held up soa heigh,
Or why a suit o' clooas should leead
Soa monny fowk astray.

Aw can't tell why a child 'at's born
To lord or lady that,
Should be soa worship'd, wol they scorn
A poor man's little brat.

Aw can't tell why a workin man
Should wear his life away,
Wol maisters grasp at all they can,
An grudge a chap his pay.

Aw can't tell why a lot o' things
Are as they seem to be;
But if its nowt to nubdy else,
Ov coorse its nowt to me.

Happen Thine.

Then its O! for a wife, sich a wife as aw know! Who's thowts an desires are pure as the snow, Who nivver thinks virtue a reason for praise, An who shudders when tell'd ov this world's wicked ways.

Shoo isn't a gossip, shoo keeps to her hooam, Shoo's a welcome for friends if they happen to come; Shoo's tidy an cleean, let yo call when yo may, Shoo's nivver upset or put aght ov her way.

At morn when her husband sets off to his wark, Shoo starts him off whistlin, as gay as a lark; An at neet if he's weary he hurries straight back, An if worried forgets all his cares in a crack.

If onny naybor is sick or distressed, Shoe sends what shoo can an allus her best; An if onny young fowk chonce to fall i' disgrace, They fly straight to her and they tell her ther case.

Shoo harkens--an then in a motherly tone Sympathises as tho they were bairns ov her own; Shoo shows 'em ther faults, an points aght th' best way, To return to th' reight rooad, if they've wandered astray.

Soa kindly shoo tries to set tangled things straight, Yo'd ommost goa wrang to let her set yo reight. Shoo helps and consoles the poor, weary an worn,-- Shoo's an angel baght wings if one ivver wor born.

Shoo can join a mild frolic if fun's to be had, For her principal joy is to see others glad; Shoo's a jewel, an th' chap who can call her his own, Has noa 'cashion to hunt for th' philosopher's stooan.

If failins shoo has, they're unknown unto me,-- Shoo's as near to perfection as mortal can be;-- To know shoo's net mine, does sometimes mak me sad;-- If shoo's thine, then tha owt to be thankful, owd lad.

Contrasts.

If yo've a fancy for a spree, Goa up to Lundun, same as me, Yo'll find ther's lots o' things to see, To pleeas yo weel. If seem isn't quite enuff, Yo needn't tew an waste yor puff, To find some awkard sooarts o' stuff At yo can feel.

Yo'll nobbut need to set yor shoe On some poleeceman's tender toa,-- A varry simple thing to do,-- An wi a crack Enuff to mak a deead man jump, Daan comes his staff, an leeaves a lump, An then he'll fling yo wi a bump, Flat o' yor back.

If signs o' riches suit yo best, Yer een can easily be blest; Or if yo seek for fowk distrest, They're easy fun, Wi faces ommost worn to nowt, An clooas at arn't worth a thowt, Yet show ha long wi want they've fowt, Till fairly done.

Like a big ball it rolls along, A nivver ending, changing throng, Mixt up together, waik an strong,-- An gooid an bad. Virtues an vices side bi side,-- Poverty slinkin after pride,-- Wealth's waste, an want at's hard to bide, Some gay, some sad.

It ommost maks one have a daat, (To see some strut, some crawl abaat, One in a robe, one in a claat,) If all's just square. It may be better soa to be, But to a simpleton like me, It's hard to mak sich things agree; It isn't fair.

To Mally.

Its long sin th' parson made us one,
An yet it seems to me,
As we've gooan thrustin, toilin on,
Time's made noa change i' thee.
Tha grummeld o' thi weddin day,--
Tha's nivver stopt it yet;
An aw expect tha'll growl away
Th' last bit o' breeath tha'll get.

Growl on, old lass, an ease thi mind!
It nivver troubles me;
Aw've proved 'at tha'rt booath true an kind,--
Ther's lots 'at's war nor thee.
An if tha's but a hooamly face,
Framed in a white starched cap,
Ther's nooan wod suit as weel i'th' place,--
Ther's nooan aw'd like to swap.

Soa aw'll contented jog along,--
It's th' wisest thing to do;
Aw've seldom need to use im tongue,
Tha tawks enuff for two.
Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed,
An finds me clooas to don;
An if to-day aw worn't wed,
Aw'd say to thee,--"Come on."

Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.

Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,
Ov that yo may be sewer;
Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!
An th' biggest wor her yure.
Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,
But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,
They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,
It wor soa varry red.

Young fowk we know are seldom wise,--
Experience taiches wit;--
Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes
Is net as black as jet.
Wol others seem quite in a stew,
An can't tell whear to bide,
'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,--
An twenty things beside.

Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,
It had a ruddy cast;
An once shoo heeard a silly fop,
Say as he hurried past--
"There goes the girl I'd like to wed,--
'Twould grant my heart's desire;
In spring pull carrots from her head,--
In winter 'twould save fire."

Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,--
Shoo made a fearful vow,
To have to some fresh color turned
That yure upon her brow.
Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop,
An dyed all sooarts o' things;
An off shoo went withaat a stop,
As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.

Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale,
An tears stood in her ee;
"Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail
If axt, to dye for thee.
What color could ta like it done?
Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can;
We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun,
But aw think aw know a plan."

"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can;
Black's sewer to suit me best;
Aw dooant care if its black an tan,--
Mi life's been sich a pest.
For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't,
Ther's lots noa better bred,
Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight,
Becoss mi yure's soa red."

"Come on ageean to-morn at neet,
Aw'll have all ready, lass;
An if aw connot do it reight
Aw'll ax thi for noa brass."
Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean,
An into bed shoo popt,
Her fowk wor capt what it could meean,
For thear th' next day shoo stopt,

When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd,
An off shoo went to th' place;
Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd,
Or one i' dire disgrace.
"Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah,
It's stewin here i'th' pan;
Aw'll dip thi heead,--hold,--steady nah!
Just bide it if tha can."

Poor Sally skriked wi' all her might,
But as all th' doors wor shut,
He nobbut sed, "nah lass, keep quiet,
It weant do baght its wut.
To leearn mi trade, for twenty year,
Throo morn to neet aw've toiled,
An know at nawther hanks nor heeads,
Are weel dyed unless boiled.

But as tha'rt varry tender,
An aw've takken th' job i' hand,
Aw'll try it rayther cooiler,--
But then, th' color might'nt stand."
An for a while he swilled an slopt,
Wol shoo wor oinmost smoor'd;
An when he wrung it aght an stopt,
He varry near wor floored.

For wol thrang workin wi' her yure,
He'd been soa taen wi' th' case,
He'd nivver gein a thowt befooar,
Abaat her neck an face.
But nah he saw his sad mistak,
Yet net a word he sed;
Her skin wor all a deep blue black,
Her yure, a dark braan red.

He gate her hooam sooin as he could,
Shoo slyly slipt up stairs;
An chuckled to think ha shoo should
Tak all th' fowk unawares.
Shoo slept that neet just like a top,
Next morn shoo rose content,
Shoo rubb'd some tutty on her nop,
An then daan stairs shoo went.

All th' childer screamed as if they'd fits,--
Th' old fowk they stared like mad;--
"Nay, Sally! has ta lost thi wits?
Or has ta seen th' Old Lad?"
Shoo smil'd an sed, "Well, what's to do?"
"Gooid gracious! whear's ta been?
Thi face has turned a breet sky blue,
Thi yure's a bottle green!"

Shoo flew to th' lukkin glass to see,
An then her heart stood still;
"That villan sed 'he'd dee for me,'
Aw'll swing for him, aw will!"
An then shoo set her daan o'th flooar,
As if her heart wod braik;
An th' childer gethered raand to rooar,
But th' old fowk nivver spaik.

I' time her grief grew less, ov course,
Shoo raased hersen at last;
Shoo weshed, an swill'd, but things lukt worse,
For th' color still proved fast.
They sent a bobby after th' chap,
He browt him in a crack;
Says he, "It's been a slight mishap,
Aw've made a small mistak.

But just to prove aw meant noa ill,
Mi offer, friends, is this;
If shoo'll consent to say 'I will,'
Aw'll tak her as shoo is.
Tho' shoo luks black befooar we're wed,
That's sewer to wear away;
Aw'd like to own her yure soa red,
Until time turns it grey."

Says shoo, "awm feeard tha nobbut mocks,
Tha'rt strivin to misleead."
"Nay lass," he sed, "aw've turned thy locks,
But tha's fair turned my heead."
"Aw think yo'd better far agree,"
Sed th' old fowk in a breeath;
"Will ta ha me?" "Will ta ha me?"
"An nah we'll stick till deeath."

Sooin after that th' law made 'em one,
An sin that time awm sewer;
He ne'er regretted th' job he'd done,
Nor shoo her ruddy yure.
An when fowk ax'd her ha to get
Sich joy as hers, shoo sed,
"If anxious for some gradely wit,
Just goa an boil thi heead."

Try a Smile.

This world's full o' trubbles fowk say, but aw daat it,
Yo'll find as mich pleasure as pain;
Some grummel at times when they might do withaat it,
An oft withaat reason complain.
A fraan on a face nivver adds to its beauty,
Then let us forget for a while
Theas small disappointments, an mak it a duty,
To try the effect ov a smile.
Though the sun may be claaded he'll shine aght agean,
If we nobbut have patience an wait,
An its sewer to luk breeter for th' shadda ther's been;
Then let's banish all fooilish consait,
If we'd nivver noa sorrow joys on us wod pall,
Soa awr hearts let us all reconcile
To tak things as they come, makkin th' best on 'em all,
An cheer up a faint heart wi' a smile.

Growin Old.

Old age, aw can feel's creepin on,
Aw've noa taste for what once made me glad;
Mi love ov wild marlocks is gooan,
An aw know awm noa longer a lad.
When aw luk back at th' mile stooans aw've pass'd,
As aw've thowtlessly stroll'd o'er life's track,
Awm foorced to acknowledge at last,
'At its mooastly been all a mistak.

Aw know aw can ne'er start agean,
An what's done aw can nivver undo,
All aw've gained has been simply to leearn
Ha mi hooaps, one bi one's fallen throo.
When a lad, wi' moor follies nor brains,
Aw thowt what awd do as a man;
An aw caanted mi profits an gains,
As a lad full ov hooap only can.

An aw thowt when mi beard 'gan to grow,
Aw could leead all this world in a string,
Yet it tuk but a few years to show
'At aw couldn't do onny sich thing.
But aw tewd an aw fowt neet an day,
An detarmined awd nivver give in,
Hooap still cheered me on wi' her ray,
An awd faith 'at i'th' long run awst win.

A fortun aw felt wor for me,
An joy seem'd i'th' grasp o' mi list;
An aw laffd as aw clutched it wi' glee,
But someha or other it miss'd.
Still, aw pluckt up mi courage once moor,
An aw struggled wi' might an wi' main,
But awd noa better luck nor befooar,
An mi harvest wor sorrow an pain.

An nah, when mi best days are passed,
An mi courage an strength are all spent;
Aw've to stand o' one side an at last,
Wi' mi failures an falls rest content,
In this world some pleasures to win,
Aw've been trubbled an tried an perplext,
An aw've thowtlessly rushed into sin,
An ne'er cared for a treasure i'th' next.

As mi limbs get moor feeble an waik,
An aw know sooin mi race will be run;
Mi heart ommost feels fit to braik,
When aw think what aw've left all undone.
Nah, aw've nobbut th' fag end o' mi days
To prepare for a world withaat end;
Soa its time aw wor changin mi ways.
For ther's noa time like the present to mend

Gooid Bye, Old Lad.

Ge me thi hand, mi trusty friend,
Mi own is all aw ha to gie thi;
Let friendship simmer on to th' end;--
God bless thi! I an gooid luck be wi' thi!

Aw prize thee just for what tha art;--
Net for thi brass, thi clooas, or station;
But just becoss aw know thi heart,
Finds honest worth an habitation.

Ther's monny a suit ov glossy black,
Worn bi a chap 'at's nowt to back it:
Wol monny a true, kind heart may rack,
Lapt in a tattered fushten jacket.

Ther's monny a smilin simperin knave,
Wi' oppen hand will wish 'gooid morrow,'
'At wodn't gie a meg to save
A luckless mate, or ease his sorrow.

Praichers an taichers seem to swarm,
But sad to tell,--th' plain honest fact is,
They'd rayther bid yo shun all harm,
Nor put ther taichin into practice.

But thee,--aw read thee like a book,--
Aw judge thi booath bi word an action;
An th' mooar aw know, an th' mooar aw look,
An th' mooar awm fill'd wi' satisfaction.

Soa once agean, Gooid bye, old lad!
An till we meet agean, God bless thi!
May smilin fortun mak thi glad,
An may noa ills o' life distress thi.

That Drabbled Brat.

Goa hooam,--tha little drabbled brat,
Tha'll get thi deeath o' cold;
Whear does ta live? Just tell me that,
Befooar aw start to scold.

Thart sypin weet,--dooant come near me!
Tha luks hawf pined to deeath;
An what a cough tha has! dear me!
It ommost taks thi breeath.

Them een's too big for thy wee face,--
Thi curls are sad neglected;
Poor child! thine seems a woeful case,
Noa wonder tha'rt dejected.

Nah, can't ta tell me who tha art?
Tha needn't think aw'll harm thi;
Here, tak this sixpence for a start,
An find some place to warm thi.

Tha connot spaik;--thi een poor thing,
Are filled wi' tears already;
Tha connot even start to sing,
Thi voice is soa unsteady.

It isn't long tha'll ha to rooam,
An sing thi simple ditty;
Tha doesn't seem to be at hooam,
I' this big bustlin city.

It's hard to tell what's best to be
When seets are soa distressin;
For to sich helpless bairns as thee,
Deeath seems to be a blessin.

Some hear thi voice an pass thi by,
An feel noa touch o' sorrow;
An, maybe, them at heave a sigh,
Laff it away to-morrow.

For tha may sing, or sigh, or cry;
Nay,--tha may dee if needs be;
An th' busy craads 'at hurries by,
Streeams on an nivver heeds thee.

But ther is One, hears ivvery grooan,
We needn't to remind Him;
An He'll net leeav thi all alooan;
God give thee grace to find Him!

An may be send His angels daan,
Thi feet throo dangers guidin;
Until He sets thee in His craan,--
A gem, in light abidin.

Song for th' Hard Times, (1879.)

Nah chaps, pray dooant think it's a sarmon awm praichin,
If aw tell yo some nooations at's entered mi pate;
For ther's nubdy should turn a cold shoulder to taichin,
If th' moral be whoalsum an th' matter be reight.
We're goin throo a time o' bad trade an depression,
An scoors o' poor crayturs we meet ivvery day,
'At show bi ther faces they've had a hard lesson:--
That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.

Aw couldn't but think as throo th' streets aw wor walkin,
An lukt i' shop winders whear fin'ry's displayed,
If they're able to sell it we're fooils to keep tawkin,
An liggin all th' blame on this slackness o' trade.
Tho times may be hard, yet ther's wealth, aye, an plenty,
An if fowk do ther duty aw'll venter to say,
Ther's noa reason a honest man's plate should be empty:--
That's a nooation aw had as aw went on mi way.