Chapter 4

Now havin' seen all I could An' pass'd away my time, sir, If you think fit an' good, I'll e'en give up my rhyme, sir. An', sud my ditty please, The poppies in this garden To me would be heart's-ease; If not, I axe your pardon. Fal de ral de ra.

1. Clothes 2. Birds 3. Rudely

I'm Yorkshire too

Anonymous

From A Garland of New Songs, published by W. Appleton, Darlington, 1811.

By t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook, I was sent betimes to school; I went wi' the stream, as I studied my book, An' was thought to be no small fool. I never yet bought a pig in a poke, For, to give awd Nick his due, Tho' oft I've dealt wi' Yorkshire folk, Yet I was Yorkshire too.

I was pretty well lik'd by each village maid, At races, wake or fair, For my father had addled a vast(1) in trade, And I were his son and heir. And seeing that I didn't want for brass, Poor girls came first to woo, But tho' I delight in a Yorkshrre lass, Yet I was Yorkshire too!

To Lunnon by father I was sent, Genteeler manners to see; But fashion's so dear, I came back as I went, And so they made nothing o' me My kind relations would soon have found out What was best wi' my money to do: Says I, "My dear cousins, I thank ye for nowt, But I'm not to be cozen'd by you! For I'm Yorkshire too."

1. Earned a lot.

The Wensleydale Lad

Anonymous

When I were at home wi' my fayther an' mother, I niver had na fun; They kept me goin' frae morn to neet, so I thowt frae them I'd run. Leeds Fair were coomin' on, an' I thowt I'd have a spree, So I put on my Sunday cooat an' went right merrily.

First thing I saw were t' factory, I niver seed one afore; There were threads an' tapes, an' tapes an' silks, to sell by monny a score. Owd Ned turn'd iv'ry wheel, an' iv'ry wheel a strap; "Begor!" says I to t' maister-man, "Owd Ned's a rare strong chap."

Next I went to Leeds Owd Church-- I were niver i' one i' my days, An' I were maistly ashamed o' misel, for I didn't knaw their ways; There were thirty or forty folk, i' tubs an' boxes sat, When up cooms a saucy owd fellow. Says he, "Noo, lad, tak off thy hat."

Then in there cooms a great Lord Mayor, an' over his shooders a club, An' he gat into a white sack-poke,(1) an gat into t' topmost tub. An' then there cooms anither chap, I thinks they call'd him Ned, An' he gat into t' bottommost tub, an' mock'd all t' other chap said.

So they began to preach an' pray, they prayed for George, oor King; When up jumps t' chap i' t' bottommost tub. Says he, "Good folks, let's sing." I thowt some sang varra weel, while others did grunt an' groan, Ivery man sang what he wad, so I sang " Darby an' Joan."(2)

When preachin' an' prayin' were over, an' folks were gangin' away, I went to t' chap i' t' topmost tub. Says I, "Lad, what's to pay?" "Why, nowt," says he, "my lad." Begor! I were right fain, So I click'd hod(3) o' my gret club stick an' went whistlin' oot again.

1. Corn-sack 2. Another reading is "Bobbing Joan." 3. Took hold

A Song 1.

Thomas Browne (1771-1798)

Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee, Y' are all ower slow by hauf for me, That wait impatient for the mornin'; To-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair, I'll try to shine the fooremost there, Misen in finest claes adornin', To grace the day.

I'll put my best white stockings on, An' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon, My clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton; Aboot my neck a muslin shawl, A new silk handkerchee ower all, Wi' sike a careless air I'll put on, I'll shine this day.

My partner Ned, I know, thinks he, He'll mak hiss en secure o' me, He's often said he'd treat me rarely; But I's think o' some other fun, I'll aim for some rich farmer's son, And cheat oor simple Neddy fairly, Sae sly this day.

Why mud not I succeed as weel, An' get a man full oot genteel, As awd John Darby's daughter Nelly? I think misen as good as she, She can't mak cheese or spin like me, That's mair 'an(1) beauty, let me tell ye, On onny day.

Then hey! for sports and puppy shows, An' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows, An' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin'; An' thousand other pratty seets, An' lasses traul'd(2) alang the streets, Wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin' To drink this day.

Let's leuk at t' winder, I can see 't, It seems as tho' 't was growin' leet, The cloods wi' early rays adornin'; Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee, Y' are all ower slow be hauf for me, At(3) wait impatient for the mornin' O' sike a day.

1. Than 2. Trailed 3. That

A Song 2.

Thomas Browne (1771--1798)

When I was a wee laatle totterin' bairn, An' had nobbud just gitten short frocks, When to gang I at first was beginnin' to lairn, On my brow I gat monny hard knocks. For sae waik, an' sae silly an' helpless was I I was always a tumblin' doon then, While my mother would twattle me(1) gently an' cry, "Honey Jenny, tak care o' thisen."

When I grew bigger, an' got to be strang, At I cannily ran all about By misen, whor I liked, then I always mud gang Bithout(2) bein' tell'd about ought; When, however, I com to be sixteen year awd, An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men, My mother would call o' me in an' would scaud, An' cry--" Huzzy, tak care o' thisen."

I've a sweetheart cooms noo upo' Setterday nights, An' he swears at he'll mak me his wife; My mam grows sae stingy, she scauds an' she flytes,(3) An' twitters(4) me oot o' my life. Bud she may leuk sour, an' consait hersen wise, An' preach agean likin' young men; Sen I's grown a woman her clack(5) I'll despise, An' I's--marry!--tak care o' misen.

1. Prattle to me. 2. Without. 3. Argues, 4. Worries. 5. Talk

The Invasion: An Ecologue

Thomas Browne (1771--1798)

Impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit?--Virgil.

A wanton wether had disdain'd the bounds That kept him close confin'd to Willy's grounds; Broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray, He knew not whither on the public way. As Willy strives, with all attentive care, The fence to strengthen and the gap repair, His neighbour, Roger, from the fair return'd, Appears in sight in riding-graith adorn'd; Whom, soon as Willy, fast approaching, spies, Thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries.

WILLY How dea ye, Roger? Hae ye been at t' fair? How gangs things? Made ye onny bargains there?

ROGER I knaw not, Willy, things deant look ower weel, Coorn sattles fast, thof beas'(1) 'll fetch a deal. To sell t' awd intak(2) barley I desaagn'd, Bud couldn't git a price to suit my maand. What wi' rack-rents an' sike a want a' trade, I knawn't how yan's to git yan's landloords paid. Mair-ower(3) all that, they say, i' spring o' t' year Franch is intarmin'd on 't to 'tack us here.

WILLY Yea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for? Depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4)

ROGER True, Willy, nobbud Englishmen 'll stand By yan another o' their awwn good land. They'll niver suffer--I's be bun' to say ­ The Franch to tak a single sheep away. Fightin' for heame, upo' their awn fair field, All power i' France could niver mak 'em yield.

WILLY Whaw! seer(5) you cannot think, when put to t' pinch, At onny Englishmen 'll iver flinch! If Franch dea coom here, Roger, I'll be hang'd An' they deant git theirsens reet soondly bang'd. I can't bud think--thof I may be mistean ­ Not monny on 'em 'll git back agean.

ROGER I think nut, Willy, bud some fowk 'll say, Oor English fleet let t' Franch ships git away, When they were laid, thou knaws, i' Bantry Bay; At(6) they could niver all have gien 'em t' slip, Bud t' English wanted nut to tak a ship.

WILLY Eh! that's all lees!

ROGER I dinnot say it's true, It's all unknawn to sike as me an' you. How do we knaw when fleets do reet or wrang? I whope it's all on't fause, bud sea talks gang. Howsiver this I knaw, at when they please, Oor sailors always beat 'em upo' t' seas. An' if they nobbut sharply look aboot, T'hey needn't let a single ship coom oat. At least they'll drub 'em weel, I dinnot fear, An' keep 'em fairly off frae landin' here.

WILLY I whope sea, Roger, bud, an' if they dea Coom owerr, I then shall sharpen my awd lea.(7) What thof(8) I can bud of a laatle boast, You knaw van wadn't hae that laatle lost. I's send our Mally an' all t' bairns away, An' I misen 'll by the yamstead(9) stay. I'll fight, if need; an' if I fall, why, then I's suffer all the warst mishap misen. Was I bud seer my wife an' bairns were seafe, I then sud be to dee content eneaf.

ROGER Reet, Willy, mon, what an' they put us tea 't I will misen put forrad my best feat.(10) What thof I's awd, I's nut sae easily scar'd; On his awn midden an awd cock fights hard. They say a Franchman's torn'd a different man, A braver, better soldier, ten to yan. Bud let the Franch be torn'd to what they will, They'll finnd at Englishmen are English still. O' their awn grund they'll nowther flinch nor flee, They'll owther conquer, or they'll bravely dee.

1. Beasts, cattle. 2 Enclosure. 3. Besides. 4. Stir. 5. Surely. 6. That. 7. Scythe. 8. Though. 9. Homestead. 10 Foot.

Elegy on the Death of a Frog (1815)

David Lewis

Ya summer day when I were mowin', When flooers of monny soorts were growin', Which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin', As I advance, A frog I cut widout my knowin'-- A sad mischance.

Poor luckless frog, why com thoo here? Thoo sure were destitute o' fear; Some other way could thoo nut steer To shun the grass? For noo that life, which all hod dear, Is gean, alas!

Hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soond With which the mowers strip the groond, Then fled away wi' nimble boond, Thoo'd kept thy state: But I, unknawin', gav a wound, Which browt thy fate.

Sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn, Wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn, And golden rings round baith ees drawn, All gay an' blithe, Thoo lowpt(1) the fields like onny fawn, But met the scythe.

Frae dikes where winter watters steead(2) Thoo com unto the dewy mead, Regardless of the cattle's treead, Wi' pantin' breeath, For to restore thy freezin' bleead, But met wi' deeath.

A Frenchman early seekin' prog,(3) Will oftentimes ransack the bog, To finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog, To give relief; But I prefer a leg of hog, Or roond o' beef.

But liker far to the poor frog, I's wanderin' through the world for prog, Where deeath gies monny a yan a jog, An' cuts them doon; An' though I think misen incog, That way I's boun.

Time whets his scythe and shakes his glass, And though I know all flesh be grass, Like monny mair I play the ass, Don't seem to know; But here wad sometime langer pass, Befoor I go.

Ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers, Of cottage mean, or gilded booers, Possessed of attractive pooers, Ye all mun gang Like frogs in meadows fed by shooers, Ere owt be lang.

Though we to stately plants be grown, He easily can mow us doon; It may be late, or may be soon, His scythe we feel; Or is it fittin' to be known? Therefore fareweel.

1. Leaped. 2. Stood. 3. Food.

Sheffield Cutler's Song (1887)

Abel Bywater

Coom all you cutlin' heroes, where'ersome'er you be, All you what works at flat-backs,(1) coom listen unto me; A basketful for a shillin', To mak 'em we are willin', Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin', Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin'.

A baskitful o' flat-backs, I'm sure we'll mak, or more, To ger(2) reight into t' gallery, wheer we can rant an' roar, Throw flat-backs, stones an' sticks, Red herrin's, bones an' bricks, If they don't play "Nancy's fancy," or onny tune we fix, We'll do the best at e'er we can to break some o' their necks.

Hey! Jont, lad, where art ta waddlin' to? Does ta work at flat-backs yit, as tha's been used to do? Ha! coom, an' tha' s go wi' me, An' a sample I will gie thee, It's one at I've just forged upon Geoffry's bran-new stiddy.(3) Look at it well, it does excel all t' flat-backs i' aar smithy.

Let's send for a pitcher o' ale, lad, for I'm gerrin' varry droy, I'm ommost chok'd wi' smithy sleck,(4) the wind it is so hoigh. Gie Rafe an' Jer a drop, They sen(5) they cannot stop, They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop, They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop.

Here's Steem at lives at Heeley, he'll soon be here, I knaw, He's larnt a new maccaroni step, the best you iver saw; He has it so complete, He troies up ivery street, An' ommost breaks all t' pavors(6) wi' swattin'(7) daan his feet. An' Anak troies to beat him, wheniver they doon(8) meet.

We'll raise a tail by Sunda, Steem; I knaw who's one to sell, We'll tee a hammer heead at t' end to mak it balance well. It's a reight new Lunnon tail, We'll wear it kale for kale,(9) Aar Anak browt it wi' him, that neet he coom by t' mail. We'll drink success unto it--hey! Tout, lad, teem(10) aat t' ale.

1 Knives. 2 Get. 3. Anvil. 4. Dust. 5. Say. 6. Paving Stones. 7. Hammering. 8. Do. 9. Turn and about. 10. Pour.

Address to Poverty

Anonymous

Scoolin' maid o' iron broo, Thy sarvant will address thee noo, For thoo invites the freedom By drivin' off my former friends, To leak to their awn private ends, Just when I chanc'd to need 'em.

I've had thy company ower lang, Ill-lookin' wean,(1) thoo must be wrang, Thus to cut short my jerkin. I ken thee weel, I knaw thy ways, Thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes, An' foorc'd me to hard workin'.

To gain o' thee a yal(2) day's march I straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch. For all I still straave faster, Thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop, By some slain corn, or failin' crop, Or ivery foul disaster.

If I my maand may freely speak, I really dunnot like thy leak, Whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on; Thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd, A fiend afoore, a freight behinnd, An' foul as Mother Shipton.

Folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth, Thoo has been wi' me frae my youth, An' gien me monny a thumper; Bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight, Fast fallin' frae a fearful height, A doonreet Milton plumper.

Sud plenty frae her copious horn, Teem(1) oot to me good crops o' corn, An' prosper weel my cattle, An' send a single thoosand pund, 'T wad bring all things completely roond, An' I wad gie thee battle.

Noo, Poverty, ya thing I beg, Like a poor man withoot a leg, Sea, prethee, don't deceive me; I knaw it's i' thy power to grant The laatle favour at I want ­ At thoo wad gang an' leave me.

1. Child. 2. Whole.

The Collingham Ghost

Anonymous

I'll tell ye aboot the Collingham ghost, An' a rare awd ghost was he; For he could laugh, an' he could talk, An' run, an' jump, an' flee.

He went aboot hither an' thither, An' freeten'd some out o' their wits, He freeten'd the parson as weel as the clerk, An' lots beside them into fits.

The poor awd man wha teak the toll At Collingham bar for monny a year, He dursn't coom out to oppen his yat(2) For fear the ghost sud be near.

He teak to his bed an' there he laid, For monny a neet an' day; His yat was awlus wide oppen thrown, An' nean iver stopp'd to pay.

Awd Jerry wha kept the public hoose, An' sell'd good yal to all, Curs'd the ghost wi' hearty good will, For neabody stopp'd to call.

It made sike a noise all roond aboot, That folks com far to see; Some said it was a dreadful thing, An' sum said 't was a lee.

Gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns, Thinkin' 't was some comical beast; An' they wad eyther kill him or catch him, Or drive him awa at least.

Sea into Lady wood right they went Ya beautiful meenleet neet; A lot o' great men an' a lot o' rough dogs, Enew(3) a poor ghost to eat.

They waited lang, the ghost didn't come, They began to laugh an' rail, "If he coom oat of his den," says yan, "We'll clap a bit o' saut of his tail."

"Nay, he knows better than turn oot, When we are here to watch him, He'd git a bullet through his lug, Or Mungo there wad catch him."

When close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter The ghost went whirrin' up, An' owerr the woods he laughed an' shouted, "Bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!"

The gamkeepers all tummled doon, Their hair thrast off their hat, They gaped an' grean'd(4) an' roll'd aboot, An' their hearts went pit-a-pat.

Their feaces were white as onny clout, An' they said niver a word, T'hey couldn't tell what the ghost was like, Whether 'twas a beast or a bird.

They stay'd nea langer i' t' wood that neet, Poor men were niver dafter, They ran awa hame as fast as they could, An' their dogs ran yelping after.

The parson then, a larned man, Said he wad conjure the ghost; He was sure it was nea wandrin' beast, But a spirit that was lost.

All languages this parson knew That onny man can chat in, The Ebrew, Greek, an' Irish too, As weel as Dutch an' Latin.

O! he could talk an' read an' preach, Few men knew mair or better, An' nearly all the bukes he read Were printed in black letter.

He read a neet, he read a day, fo mak him fit for his wark, An' when he thowt he was quite up, He sent for the awd clerk.

The clerk was quickly by his side, He took but little fettlin', An' awa they went wi' right good will To gie the ghost a settlin'.

Aye off they set wi' all their might, Nor stopp'd at thin or thick, The parson wi' his sark(5) an' buke, The clerk wi' a thick stick.

At last by t' side o' t' bank they stopp'd, Where Wharfe runs murmurin' clear, A beautiful river breet an' fine, As onny in wide Yorkshire.

The parson then began to read, An' read full loud an' lang, The rabbits they ran in an' oot, An' wonder'd what was wrang.

The ghost was listnin' in a hole, An' oat he bang'd at last, The fluttrin' o' his mighty wings, Was like a whirlwind blast.

He laughed 'an shooted as he flew, Until the wild woods rang; His who-who-whoop was niver heard Sea load an' clear an' strang.

The parson he fell backwards ower Into a bush o' whins, An' lost his buke, an' rave(6) his sark,(7) An' prick'd his hands an' shins.

The clerk he tried to run awa, But tumml'd ower his stick, An' there he made a nasty smell While he did yell an' fick.(8)

An' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd That here I darn't tell, For if I did, folks wad declare I was as ill as hissel.

For eighteen months an' mair he stay'd, An' just did as he thowt ; For lord nor duke, parson nor clerk, He fear'd, nor cared nowt.

Efter that time he went awa, Just when it pleas'd hissel; But what he was, or whar he com fra, Nea mortal man can tell.

1. Pour. 2. Gate. 3. Enough. 4. Groaned. 5. Surplice. 6. Tore. 7. Surplice. 8. Kick.

The Yorkshire Horse Dealers

Anonymous

Bain(1) to Clapham town-end lived an owd Yorkshire tike, Who i' dealing i' horseflesh had ne'er met his like; 'T were his pride that i' all the hard bargains he'd hit, He'd bit a girt monny, but niver bin bit.

This owd Tommy Towers (by that name he were known) Had an owd carrion tit(2) that were sheer skin an' bone; To have killed him for t' curs wad have bin quite as well, But 't were Tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat, Thowt to diddle owd Tommy wad be a girt treat; He'd a horse, too, 't were war(3) than owd Tommy's, ye see, For t' neet afore that he'd thowt proper to dee !

Thinks Abey, t' owd codger 'll niver smoke t' trick, I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,(4) An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen to trap, 'T will be a fine feather i' Abraham cap!

So to Tommy he goes, an' the question he pops: "Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops? What wilt gie me to boot? for mine's t' better horse still?" "Nowt," says Tommy, "I'll swop even hands, an' ye will!"

Abey preached a lang time about summat to boot, Insistin' that his were the liveliest brute; But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun, Till Abey shook hands, an' said, Well, Tommy I done!

"O! Tommy," said Abey, "I's sorry for thee, I thowt thou'd hae hadden mair white i' thy ee; Good luck's wi' thy bargain, for my horse is deead." "Hey!" says Tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an' it's fleead(5)!"

So Tommy got t' better o' t' bargain a vast, An' cam' off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last; For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mich to choose, Yet Tommy were richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.

1 Near. 2 Nag. 3 Worse. 4. Quick, living 5. Flayed.

The Lucky Dream

John Castillo (1792-1845)