Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is It.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come thi Ways!

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

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

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

Advice to Jenny.

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

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

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

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

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

Ther's mich Expected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Strange Stooary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Take Heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did yo Iver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Old Man's Christmas Morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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