Part 10

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.