Part 2

"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say? Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; Aw've kept thease doors too long a day, Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, For th' sake o' all ther's in it: If yo've a map o' England by, Aw'll show yo in a minit."

Soa Peter gate a time-table-- They gloored o'er th' map together: Drew did all at he wor able, But could'nt find a stiver. At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall, An thear stands Braforth mission: It's just between them two--that's all: Your map's an old edition.

But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, An' if yo've niver known it, Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan, Tho mony be 'at scorn it." He oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "It's time Some body coom--aw'll trust thee. Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-- Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."

Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.

Nay surelee tha's made a mistak; Tha'rt aght o' thi element here; Tha may weel goa an' peark up oth' thack, Thi bonny wings shakin wi fear.

Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms Saand queer sooart o' music to thee; An' tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes O' miln-grease,--what th' quality be.

Maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us, An' thinks we're a low offald set But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, For ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet.

Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, An' as humble as humble could be; An' tho we nah are like tha wor then, We may yet be as nobby as thee.

Tha'd to see thi own livin when young, An' when tha grew up tha'd to spin; An' if labor like that worn't wrong, Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'

But tha longs to be off aw con tell; For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content: Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell! Off tha goas, bonny fly!--An' it went.

Uncle Ben

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben As iver lived ith' 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 niver 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 niver wanted silver plate, Nor owt 'at's rich and 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 niver turned poor fowk away Uncared for throo his door; He ne'er forgate ther wor a day When he hissen wor poor; An' mony a face has turned to Heaven, All glistenin wi' weet, An' prayed for blessins on owd Ben, For he did th' 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.

The New Year's Resolve

Says Dick, "ther's a' notion 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 enuf 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' awm 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."

The Old Bachelor's Story

It was an humble cottage, Snug in a rustic lane, Geraniums and fuschias peep'd From every window-pane;

The dark-leaved ivy dressed its walls, Houseleek adorned the thatch; The door was standing open wide, They had no need of latch.

And close besides the corner There stood an old stone well, Which caught a mimic waterfall, That warbled as it fell.

The cat, crouched on the well-worn steps, Was blinking in the sun; The birds sang out a welcome To the morning just begun.

An air of peace and happiness Pervaded all the scene; The tall trees formed a back ground Of rich and varied green;

And all was steeped in quietness, Save nature's music wild, When all at once, methought I heard The sobbing of a child.--

I listened, and the sound again Smote clearly on my ear: "Can there,"--I wondering asked myself-- "Can there be sorrow here?"--

I looked within, and on the floor Was sat a little boy, Striving to soothe his sister's grief By giving her a toy.

"Why weeps your sister thus?" I asked; "What is her cause of grief? Come tell me, little man," I said, "Come tell me, and be brief."

Clasping his sister closer still, He kissed her tear-stained face, And thus, in homely Yorkshire phrase, He told their mournful case.

"Mi mammy, sir, shoos liggin thear, I' th' shut-up bed i' th' nook; An' tho aw've tried to wakken her, Shoo'll nawther spaik nor look.

Mi sissy wants her poridge, An' its time shoo had em too, But th' foir's gooan aght an' th' mail's all done-- Aw dooant know what to do.

An' O, my mammy's varry cold-- Just come an' touch her arm: Aw've done mi best to hap her up, But connot mak her warm.

Mi daddy he once fell asleep, An' niver wakken'd moor: Aw saw 'em put him in a box, An' tak him aght o' th' door.

He niver comes to see us nah, As once he used to do, An' let'mi ride upon his back-- Me, an' mi sissy too.

An' if they know mi mammy sleeps, Soa cold, an' white, an' still, Aw'm feeard they'll come an' fotch her, sir; O, sir, aw'm feard they will!

Aw happen could get on misen, For aw con work a bit, But little sissy, sir, yo see, Shoo's' varra young as yet.

Oh! dunnot let fowk tak mi mam! Help me to rouse her up! An' if shoo wants her physic, See,--it's in this little cup.

Aw know her heead war bad last neet, When putting us to bed; Shoo said, 'God bless yo, little things!' An' that wor all shoo said.

Aw saw a tear wor in her e'e-- In fact, it's seldom dry: Sin daddy went shoo allus cries, But niver tells us why.

Aw think it's coss he isn't here, 'At maks her e'en soa dim; Shoo says, he'll niver come to us, But we may goa to him.

But if shoo's gooan an' left us here, What mun we do or say?-- We cannot follow her unless, Somebody 'll show us th' way."

----

My heart was full to bursting, When I heard the woeful tale; I gazed a moment on the face Which death had left so pale;

Then clasping to my heaving breast The little orphan pair, I sank upon my bended knees, And offered up a prayer,

That God would give me power to aid Those children in distress, That I might as a father be Unto the fatherless.

Then coaxingly I led them forth; And as the road was long, I bore them in my arms by turns-- Their tears had made me strong.

I took them to my humble home, Where now they may be seen, The lad,--a noble-minded youth,-- His "sissy,"--beauty's queen.

And now if you should chance to see, Far from the bustling throng, An old man, whom a youth and maid Lead tenderly along;--

And if you, wondering, long to know The history of the three,-- They are the little orphan pair-- The poor old man is me:

And on the little grassy mound 'Neath which their parents sleep, They bend the knee, and pray for me; I pray for them and weep.

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 abaght th' streets wol awm sick An' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through.

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' ivery 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 thout '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 thro' 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 ivery neet, An' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor, 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 hoamwards 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 through; Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, He'll find a chap summat to do.

Another Babby

Another!--well, my bonny lad, A'w wodn't send thee back; Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch To see thi pratty face; Ther's net another child i'th bunch Moor welcome to a place

Aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee, I' some nook o' mi cage; But if another comes, raylee! Aw'st want a bigger wage.

But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want-- We'll try to pool thee throo, For Him who has mi laddie sent, He'll send his baggin too.

He hears the little sparrows chirp, An' answers th' raven's call; He'll never see one want for owt, 'At's worth aboon 'em all.

But if one on us mun goa short, (Although it's hard to pine,) Thy little belly shall be fill'd Whativer comes o' mine.

A chap con nobbut do his best, An' that aw'll do for thee, Leavin to providence all th' rest, An' we'st get help'd, tha'll see.

An' if thi lot's as bright an' fair As aw could wish it, lad, Tha'll come in for a better share Nor iver blessed thi dad.

Aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt, If, when deeath comes, aw find Aw leave some virtuous lasses An' some honest lads behind.

An' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace For me, a sculptor'd stooan, Aw hope to leave a noble race, Wi arms o' flesh an' booan.

Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, Wi' health, we'll persevere, An' try to find a brighter track-- We'll conquer, niver fear!

An may God shield thee wi' his wing, Along life's stormy way, An' keep thi heart as free throo sin, As what it is to-day.

Th' Little Black Hand

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, An' it may be poetical fire; An' suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away-- Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; An' tho aw turn neet into day, If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; But then ther's abundance o' care, An' them 'at's contented wi' strife May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik, Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; An' if butter be aght o' mi raik, Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it! When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, Aw con thoil 'em whativer they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, An' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags, Wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;

Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut' knew What ther brothers i' poverty feel, They'd a trifle moor charity show, An' help 'em sometimes to a meal.

But we're all far too fond of ussen, To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; An' we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'At's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet.

But ther's mony a honest heart throbs, Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's working away, An' sweepin that crossin i'th' street: He's been thear iver sin it coom day, An' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, An' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! What care they tho' he smothered a sigh, Or wiped off a tear as they coom.

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! He's gien th' poor child summat at last: Ha his een seem to twinkle an' start, As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

An' thear in his little black hand He sees a gold sovereign shine! He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, An' he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, An' tell him to cut aght o'th seet; But he clutches it fast,--an' nah see Ha he's threedin his way along th' street,

Till he comes to that varry same man, An' he touches him gently o'th' back, An' he tells him as weel as he can, 'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, With his little naked feet, as he stands, An' his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An' he begs him to tell him his name: But th' child glances timidly raand-- Poor craytur! he connot forshame To lift up his een off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik, An' he tells him they call him poor Joa; 'At his mother is sickly an' waik; An' his father went deead long ago;

An' he's th' only one able to work Aght o' four; an' he does what he can, Thro' early at morn till it's dark: An' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An' he tells him his mother's last word, As he starts for his labour for th' day, Is to put 'all his trust in the Lord, An' He'll net send him empty away.--

See that man! nah he's wipin his een, An' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; An' th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen What 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd.

An' mony a time too, after then, Did that gentleman tak up his stand At that crossing an' watch for hissen The work ov that little black hand.

An' when-years had gone by, he expressed 'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, An' all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an' the wealthy may prate, An' booast o' ther riches and land, Some o'th' laadest ul sink second-rate To that lad with his little black hand.

Lilly's Gooan

"Well, Robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, Aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; Thi een luk as red as a sun-- Aw saw that across th' width of a street; Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war-- Surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead? Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar-- What means ta bi shakin thi heead? Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e At shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, When youngens like her hap ta dee, They miss troubles as some live to hit. Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, But give over freatin, becoss It's for th' best if shoo's been taen away." "A'a! Daniel, it's easy for thee To talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; But its ommost deeath-blow to me, Shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; An' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, Mi feelins noa mortal can tell; Mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, An' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel. Aw shall think on it wor aw to live To be th' age o' Methusla or moor; Tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, We should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: An' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, Shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; But shoo could'nt for th' life goa away Till they call'd for her daddy an' all. An' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, Shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; An' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, An' listened to all 'at shoo's said; Shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, When shoo's been ov a Sundy to th' schooil, An ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, Woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill An' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, Shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, An whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; Aw'm gooin to a happier land; An' aw'll tell Jesus when aw get thear, 'At aw've left yo here waitin his call; An' He'll find yo a place, niver fear, For ther's room up i' heaven for all. An' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, Shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, An' aw find at aw hardly can see.-- Gooid bye!--kiss yor Lily agean,-- Let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast! Aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; Then Lily shoo went to her rest."

My Native Twang

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, An owt to goa to th' schooil To leearn to talk like other fowk, An' net be sich a fooil; But aw've a noashun, do yo see, Although it may be wrang, The sweetest music is to me, Mi own, mi native twang.

An' when away throo all mi friends, I' other taans aw rooam, Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends For what aw've left at hooam; But as aw hurry throo ther streets Noa matter tho aw'm thrang, Ha welcome if mi ear but greets Mi own, mi native twang.

Why some despise it, aw can't tell, It's plain to understand; An' sure aw am it saands as weel, Tho happen net soa grand. Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, They call that vulgar slang; But if aw tell 'em they're engaged, That's net mi native twang.

Mi father, tho' he may be poor, Aw'm net ashamed o' him; Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, An tho' her een are dim; Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk Its crucken'd streets amang; For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk Say boldly what they meean; For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, May be ther hearts are cleean, An' them 'at country fowk despise, Aw say, "Why, let' em hang;" They'll niver rob mi sympathies Throo thee, mi native twang,

Aw like to see grand ladies, When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en Throo th' carriage winders shine: Mi mother wor a woman, An' tho' it may be wrang, Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one; Gooid luck to them 'ats brass; Gooid luck an' better times to come To them 'ats poor--alas! An' may health, wealth, an' sweet content For iver dwell amang True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk, At tawk mi native twang.

Shoo's thi Sister

(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; On her feet ther's monny a blister: See ha painfully shoo drags Her tired limbs to some quiet corner: Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin-- Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor; Schooil'd for years her grief to smother, Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, A kid glove o' awther hand, Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-- Shoo's thi sister, understand: Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin, An' ha pale her little face, An' her hair neglected, showin Her's has been a sorry case; O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, When tha shov'd her into th' street

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater Nor thisen wi' all thi brass, Him, awr blessed Mediator,-- Wod He scorn that little lass? Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em, An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net Some regret for what tha's done, If tha con pass on, an' cares net For that sufferin' little one; Then ha'iver poor shoo be, Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, To awr duties here below! For we're forced to leave behind us All awr pomp, an' all awr show: Why then should we slight another? Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.

Persevere.

What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo, Let us buckle to awr wark, For ther's lots o' jobs to do: Tho' all th' world luks dark an' drear, Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

He's a fooil 'at sits an' mumps 'Coss some troubles hem him raand! Man mud allus be i'th dumps, If he sulk'd coss fortun fraand; Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:-- Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

If we think awr lot is hard, Niver let us mak a fuss; Lukkin raand, at ivery yard, We'st find others war nor us; We have still noa cause to fear! Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, Niver won a lady fair: Have a will! yo'll find a way! Honest men ne'er need despair. Better days are drawin' near:-- Then ha' faith, an' persevere.

Workin men,--nah we've a voice, An' con help to mak new laws; Let us iver show awr choice Lains to strengthen virtue's cause, Wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer; This awr motto--'persevere.'

Let us show to foreign empires Loyalty's noa empty booast; We can scorn the thirsty vampires If they dar molest awr cooast: To awr Queen an' country dear Still we'll cling an' persevere.

But as on throo life we hurry, By whativer path we rooam, Let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, True reform begins at hooam: Then, to prove yorsens sincere, Start at once; an' persevere.

Hard wark, happen yo may find it, Some dear folly to forsake, Be detarmined ne'er to mind it! Think, yor honor's nah at stake. Th' gooid time's drawin varry near! Then ha' faith, an' persevere.

To a Roadside Flower

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined To tak thee wi' me: But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, Tha'd ne'er forgie me; For I' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, An' life is short enough, boath for mi-sen an' thee.

Here, if aw leeave thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, Whear scoors may pass thee, Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish May stop an' bless thee: Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty, Sent here to bless: Smile on--tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn't rob another of a joy Sich as tha's gien me; For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy Until aw'd seen thee. An' may each passin', careworn, lowly brother, Feel cheered like me, an' leave thee for another.

Prose. Hartley's Cream of Wit and Humour

The New Year

What a charm ther is abaat owt new; whether it's a new year or a new waist-coit. Aw sometimes try to fancy what sooart ov a world ther'd be if ther wor nowt new.