Part 13

Blest be that heart 'at finds i' me What nubdy else could ivver see;-- Summat to love.--Aye! even thee, Tha knows its true; We've shared booath wealth an poverty, An meean to do.

When fowk wi kindly hearts aglow, Say, "Poor old fogies," they dooant know 'At all they own is far below Thy worth to me; An all the wealth at they could show Wod ne'er tempt thee,

Time's creepin on,--we wait a chonce, When we shall quit life's mazy donee; But, please God! Tak us booath at once, Old Dick an me; When's time to quit,--why--that announce When best suits Thee.

Briggate at Setterdy Neet.

Sin Leeds wor a city it puts on grand airs, An aw've noa wish to bother wi' others' affairs; 'At they've mich to be praad on aw freely admit, But aw think thier's some things they mud alter a bit. They've raised some fine buildings 'at's worth lookin at,-- They're a credit to th' city, thers noa daat o' that; But ther's nowt strikes a stranger soa mich as a seet O'th' craad 'at's i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Aw've travelled a bit i' booath cities an taans, An aw've oft seen big craads when they've stept aght o' baands;-- Well,--excitement sometimes will lead fowk astray, When they dooant meean owt wrang, but just rollikin play, But Leeds is a licker,--for tumult an din,-- For bullies an rowdies an brazzen-faced sin. Aw defy yo to find me another sich street,-- As disgraceful, as Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Poleecemen are standin i' twos an i' threes, But they must be stooan blinnd to what other fowk sees; It must be for ornaments they've been put thear,-- It cant be nowt else, for they dooant interfere. Young lads who imagine it maks 'em seem men If they hustle an shaat and mak fooils o' thersen. Daycent fowk mun leeav th' cawsey for th' middle o'th' street For its th' roughs at own Briggate at Setterdy neet.

An if yo've a heart 'at can feel, it must ache When yo hear ther faal oaths an what coorse jests they make; Yet once they wor daycent an wod be soa still, But they've takken th' wrang turnin,--they're gooin daan hill. Them lasses, soa bonny, just aght o' ther teens, Wi' faces an figures 'at's fit for a queen's. What is it they're dooin? Just watch an yo'll see 't, What they're hawkin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.

They keep sendin praichers to th' heathen an sich, But we've heathen at hooam at require 'em as mich: Just luk at that craad at comes troopin along, Some yellin aght th' chorus o'th' new comic song; Old an young,--men an wimmen,--some bummers, some swells, Turned aght o' some dnnkin an singin room hells;-- They seek noa dark corners, they glory i'th' leet, This is Briggate,--their Briggate, at Setterdy neet.

Is it axin too mich ov "the powers that be," For a city's main street from sich curse to be free? Shall Morality's claims be set all o' one side, Sich a market for lewdness an vice to provide? Will that day ivver come when a virtuous lass, Alone, withaat insult, in safety may pass? Its time for a change, an awm langin to see 't,-- A respectable Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Them well-meeanin parents, at hooam at ther ease, Are oft wilfully blind to sich dangers as theas; Their sons an their dowters are honest an pure,-- That may be,--an pray God it may ivver endure. But ther's noa poor lost craytur, but once on a time, Wor as pure as ther own an wod shudder at crime. The devil is layin his snares for ther feet,-- An they're swarmin i' Briggate at Setterdy neet.

Awr Annie.

Saw yo that lass wi' her wicked een? That's awr Annie. Shoo's th' pet o'th' haase, we call her 'queen,' Shoo's th' bonniest wench wor ivver seen; Shoo laffs an frolics all th' day throo,-- Shoo does just what shoo likes to do,-- But then shoo's loved,--an knows it too;-- That's awr Annie.

If ivver yo meet wi' a saucy maid,-- That's awr Annie. Shoo's sharp as onny Sheffield blade, Shoo puts all others into th' shade. At times shoo'll sing or laff or cry, An nivver give a reason why: Sometimes shoo's cheeky, sometimes shy; That's awr Annie.

Roamin throo meadows green an sweet, That's awr Annie; Trippin away wi' fairy feet, Noa fairer flaar yo'll ivver meet; Or in some trees cooil shade shoo caars Deckin her golden curls wi' flaars; Singin like happy burd for haars, That's awr Annie.

Chock full o' mischief, aw'll admit, That's awr Annie;-- But shoo'li grow steadier in a bit, Shoo'll have mooar wisdom, an less wit. But could aw have mi way i' this, Aw'd keep her ivver as shoo is,-- Th' same innocent an artless miss, That's awr Annie.

Child ov mi old age, dearest, best! That's awr Annie; Cloise to mi weary bosom prest, Far mooar nor others aw feel blest;-- Jewels an gold are nowt to me, For when shoo's sittin o' mi knee, Ther's nubdy hawf as rich as me, Unless it's Annie.

Peter Prime's Principles.

"Sup up thi gill, owd Peter Prime, Tha'st have a pint wi' me; It's worth a bob at onny time To have a chat wi' thee. Aw like to see thi snowy hair, An cheeks like apples ripe,-- Come squat thi daan i'th' easy cheer, Draw up, an leet thi pipe. Tho' eighty years have left ther trace, Tha'rt hale an hearty yet, An still tha wears a smilin face, As when th' furst day we met. Pray tell me th' saycret if tha can What keeps thi heart soa leet, An leeavs thi still a grand owd man, At we're all praad to meet?"

"Why lad, my saycret's plain to see, An th' system isn't hard; Just live a quiet life same as me, An tha'll win th' same reward. Be honest i' thi dealins, lad, That keeps a easy mind; Shun all thi conscience says is bad, An nivver be unkind. If others laff becoss tha sticks To what tha knows is reight, Why, let 'em laff, dooant let their tricks Prevent thee keepin straight. If blessed wi' health, an strong to work Dooant envy them at's rich; If duty calls thi nivver shirk, Tha'rt happier far nor sich. Contentment's better wealth nor gold, An labor sweetens life,-- Ther's nowt at maks a chap grow old, Like idleness an strife. Dooant tawk too mich, but what tha says Be sewer it's allus true; An let thi ways be honest ways, An that'll get thi throo. If tha's a wife, pray dooant forget Shoo's flesh an blooid like thee; Be kind an lovin, an aw'll bet A helpmate true shoo'll be. Dooant waste thi brass i' rants an sprees, Or maybe when tha'rt old,-- Wi' body bent an tott'rin knees, Tha'll be left aght i'th' cold. Luk at th' breet side o' ivverything An varry sooin tha'll see, Whear providence has placed thi, Is whear tha owt to be. Dooant live as if this world wor all, For th' time will come someday, When that grim messenger will call, An tha mun goa away. Tha'll nivver need to quake or fear, If tha carries aght this plan, An them tha's left behind shall hear 'Thear lies an honest man.'"

Cuckoo!

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Just a word i' thi ear,-- Aw hooap we shall net disagree; But aw'm foorced to admit as aw watch thi each year, At tha seems a big humbug to me.

We know at tha brings us glad tidins ov Spring, An for that art entitled to thanks; But tha maks a poor fist when tha offers to sing, An tha plays some detestable pranks.

Too lazy to build a snug hooam for thisel, Tha lives but a poor vagrant life; An thi mate is noa better aw'm sooary to tell, Shoo's unfit to be onny burd's wife.

Shoo drops her egg into another burd's nest, An shirks what's her duty to do; Noa love for her offspring e'er trubbles the breast, Ov this selfish, hard-hearted Cuckoo.

Some other poor burd mun attend to her young, An work hard to find 'em wi' grubs, An all her reward, is to find befooar long At her foster child treeats her wi' snubs.

Tha lives throo all th' sunshine, but th' furst chilly wind 'At ruffles thi feathers a bit, Yo gather together an all i' one mind Turn yor tails,--fly away, an forget.

Ther's some men just like yo, soa selfish an base, They dooant care what comes or what gooas; If they can just manage to live at ther ease, Ait an drink, an be donn'd i' line clooas,

Cuckoo, thar't a type ov a lot at aw've met,-- Aw'm nooan sooary when th' time comes to Part;-- An i' spite ov all th' poets 'at's lauded thi, yet, Tha'rt a humbug!--That's just what tha art.

Fowk Next Door.

Said Mistress Smith to Mistress Green, Aw'm feeard we'st ha to flit; Twelve year i' this same haase we've been, An should be stoppin yet, I'th' same old spot, we thowt to spend If need be twelve year mooar; But all awr comfort's at an end, Sin th' fowk moved in next door.

Yo know aw've nivver hurt a flea, All th' years at aw've been here; An fowk's affairs are nowt to me,-- Aw nivver interfere. We've had gooid naybors all this while,-- All honest fowk tho' poor; But aw can't tolerate sich style As they put on next door.

Aw dooant know whear they get ther brass, It's little wark they do;-- Ther's eight young bairns, an th' owdest lass Is gaddin raand th' day throo. They dress as if they owned a mint, Throo th' owdest to th' youngest brat, Noa skimpin an noa sign o' stint, But aw've nowt to do wi' that.

Ther's th' maister wears a silk top hat, An sometimes smooks cigars!-- An owd clay pipe or sich as that Is gooid enuff for awrs. When th' mistress stirs shoo has to ride I' cabs or else i'th' buss; But aw mun walk or caar inside; Ov coorse that's nowt to us.

Aw wonder if they've paid ther rent? Awr landlord's same as theirs; If we should chonce to owe a cent, He'll put th' bums in he swears. An th' butcher wodn't strap us mait, Noa, net if we'd to pine, Aw daat at their accaant's nooan straight, But it's noa affair o' mine.

One can't help havin thowts yo know, When one meets sich a case; An nivver sin we lived i'th' row Did such like things tak place. Wi' business when it isn't mine, Aw nivver try to mell, An if they want to cut a shine They're like to pleas thersel.

But stuck up fowk aw ne'er could bide,-- An pride will have a fall. Aw connot match 'em, tho' aw've tried, Aw wish aw could, that's all! Aw dunnot envy 'em a bit, Aw'm quite content, tho' poor, But one on us will ha to flit, Us or them fowk next door.

Dad's Lad.

Little patt'rin, clatt'rin feet, Runnin raand throo morn to neet; Banishin mi mornin's nap,-- Little bonny, noisy chap,-- But aw can't find fault yo see,-- For he's Dad's lad an he loves me.

He loves his mother withaat daat, Tho' shoo gies him monny a claat; An he says, "Aw'll tell mi Dad," Which ov coorse maks mother mad; Then he snoozles on her knee, For shoo loves him 'coss shoo loves me.

He's a bother aw'll admit, But he'll alter in a bit; An when older grown, maybe, He'll a comfort prove to me, An mi latter days mak glad, For aw know he's Daddy's lad.

If he's aght o' sect a minnit, Ther's some mischief, an he's in it, When he's done it then he'll flee; An for shelter comes to me. What can aw do but shield my lad? For he's my pet an aw'm his Dad.

After a day's hard toil an care, Sittin in mi rockin chair; Nowt mi wearied spirit charms, Like him nestlin i' mi arms, An noa music is as sweet, As his patt'rin, clatt'rin feet.

Willie's Weddin.

A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear Tha's won a wife at last; Tha'll have a happier time next year, Nor what tha's had i'th' past. If owt can lend this life a charm, Or mak existence sweet, It is a lovin woman's arm Curled raand yor neck at neet.

An if shoo's net an angel, Dooant grummel an find fault, For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find Are seldom worth ther salt. They're far too apt to flee away, To spreead ther bonny wings; They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day Nor th' duties wifehood brings.

A wife should be a woman, An if tha's lucky been; Tha'il find a honest Yorksher lass, Is equal to a Queen. For if her heart is true to thee, An thine to her proves true,-- Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies, An tha need nivver rue.

Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes, When mooar inclined to sware; But recollect, no precious things Bring joy unmixed wi' care. An when her snarlin turns to smiles, An bitterness to bliss, Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles, An mak up wi' a kiss.

Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil, An thy superior wit Will allus win, an keepin cooil Tha'll triumph in a bit. Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee An holds thi in Love's tether, Well, nivver heed,--they best agree When two fooils mate together.

Somdy's Chonce.

What's a poor lass like me to do, 'At langs for a hooam ov her own? Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too, An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown. Aw want nawther riches nor style, Just a gradely plain felly will do; But aw'm waitin a varry long while An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.

But th' trubble's just this,--let me tell, What aw want an will have if aw can, To share wedded life wi' misel, Is a man 'at's worth callin a man. But Harry's as stiff as a stoop, An Jack, onny lass wod annoy,-- Harry's nobbut a soft nin-com-poop, An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.

If caarin at th' hob ov a neet, Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil; Aw should order him aght o' mi seet, Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil. His wage,--what it wor,--couldn't bring Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains, If aw fan misen teed to a thing, At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.

"But ther's love," yo may say,--Hi that's it! But aw nivver could love a machine; An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit, Net if he could mak me a queen. Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong, An honest, truehearted an kind, But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along, Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.

Soa Harry will ha to be seckt, For a nin-com-poop's nowt i' mi line; As for Jack,--he could nivver expect To win sich a true heart as mine. Ther's lasses enuff to be had, 'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy, They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad, Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.

Aw dooant want to spend all mi life, Like a saar, neglected old maid; Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife, Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade. Soa if onny young chap wants a mate, Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich, If he's getten some sense in his pate, Aw'm his chonce.--An he need'nt have mich.

To a True Friend.

Here'sa song to mi brave old friend, A friend who has allus been true; His day's drawin near to its end, When he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do. His teeth have quite wasted away, He's grown feeble an blind o' one ee, His hair is all sprinkled wi' gray, But he's just as mich thowt on bi me.

When takkin a stroll into th' taan, He's potterin cloise at mi heels; Noa matter whearivver aw'm baan, His constancy nivver once keels. His feyts an his frolics are o'er, But his love nivver offers to fail; An altho' some may fancy us poor, They could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail.

If th' grub is sometimes rayther rough, An if prospects for better be dark; He nivver turns surly an gruff, Or shows discontent in his bark. Ther's nubdy can tice him away,-- He owns but one maister,--that's me, He seems to know all 'at aw say, An maks th' best ov his lot, what it be.

Aw've towt him a trick, nah an then, Just when it has suited mi whim; But aw'm foorced to admit to misen, At aw've leearned far mooar lessons throo him. He may have noa soul to be saved, An when life ends i' this world he's done; But aw wish aw could say aw'd behaved Hawf as weel, when my life's journey's run.

Yo may call it a fooilish consait,-- But to me he's soa faithful an dear, 'At whativver mi futer estate, Aw'st feel looansum if Dick isn't thear. But if foorced to part, once for all, An his carcase to worms aw mun give, His mem'ry aw oft shall recall, For he nivver can dee wol aw live.

Warmin Pan.

That old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face, Has hung thear for monny a day; 'Twor mi Gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place, If we tuk th' owd utensil away.

We ne'er use it nah,--but aw recollect th' time, When at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks; An ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine, For they sed it wornt meant for young fowks.

When old Gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest, An mi mother coom in for all th' lot; An shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest, An shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot.

Aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff, Things willn't goa long on th' old plan; Th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff, An mak gam o' mi old warmin pan.

But aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet, An aw seem to live ovver once mooar; Them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet, An aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar.

Aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day, An aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit; But aw've this consolation,--aw think aw may say, Aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit.

It may be Soa.

This world's made up ov leet an shade, But some things strange aw mark; One class live all on th' sunny side, Wol others dwell i'th' dark. Wor it intended some should grooap, Battlin with th' world o' care, Wol others full ov joy an hooap Have happiness to spare?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, Opinions should be free;-- Aw'm nobbut spaikin as a friend,-- But it seems that way to me.

Should one class wear ther lives away, To mak another great; Wol all their share will hardly pay, For grub enuff to ait? An is it reight at some should dress I' clooas bedeckt wi' gold, Wol others havn't rags enuff, To keep ther limbs throo th' cold?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c,

When gazin at th' fine palaces, Whear live the favoured few; Aw cant help wonderin sometimes If th' inmates nobbut knew, At th' buildins next to their's i' size Are workhaases for th' poor, An if they'd net feel some surprise At th' misery raand ther door?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c.

Sometimes aw wonder what chaps think When shiverin wi' th' cold, Abaat th' brass at they've spent i' drink, Whear th' landlords caant ther gold. They couldn't get a shillin lent, To buy a bit o' breead, Whear all ther wages have been spent,-- They'd get kickt aght asteead.

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c.

Aw wonder if they'll leearn some day, At th' best friend they can find, When th' shop's shut daan, an stopt ther pay, Is ther own purse snugly lined? Aw wonder, will th' time ivver come, When th' darkest day is done, When they can sing of Home Sweet Home. An know they've getten one?

It may be soa, aw hooap it will, For then we'st all be free; When ivvery man's his own best friend,-- Gooid by to poverty.

A Safe Investment.

Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest, Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce! Aw'll gie yo a tip,--one o'th' best, Whear ther's profit an safety for once. Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust, Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait,-- Depend on't its one yo can trust, For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight.

Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar,-- But mooast fowk are apt to forget;-- Yet yo know if yo give to the poor, At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt. Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face, An its true too,--believe it or net,-- It's a bargain God made i' this case, An He'll nivver back aght on't,--yo bet.

All th' wealth yo may have can't prevent Grim Deeath commin to yo some day; An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent, When yor time comes for gooin away. But yo'll dee wi' a leetsomer heart, An for what yo leeav care net a straw, Earth's losses will cause yo noa smart, If i' Heaven yo've summat to draw.

Its useless to pray an to praich,-- Yo can't fill fowk's bellies wi' wynd; Put summat to ait i' ther raich, An then lectur em all yo've a mind; Ther's poor folk on ivvery hand, Yo can't shut yor ears to ther cry;-- A wail ov woe's sweepin throo th' land, Which may turn to a rooar by-an-bye.

Yo can't expect chaps who have wives, An childer at's clammin i'th' cold, To be patient an quiet all ther lives, When they see others rollin i' gold. When th' workers are beggin for jobs, An th' helpless are starvin to deeath, It's just abaat time some o'th' nobs Wor reminded they dooant own all th' eearth.

If ther duties they still will neglect, An ther pomps an ther pleasurs pursue, They may find when they little expect, 'At they've getten thersen in a stew. Yo may trample a worm wol it turns,-- An ther's danger i' starvin a rat;-- A man's passion inflamed wol it burns, Is a danger mooar fearful nor that.

But why should ther be sich distress, When ther's plenty for all an to spare? Sewerly them at luck's blest can't do less Nor to help starvin fowk wi' a share. Rich harvests yo'll win from the seed When theas welcome words fall on yor ear,-- "What yo did to th' leeast brother i' need, Yo did unto Me;--Come in here."

Red Stockin.

Shoo wor shoeless, an shiverin, an weet,-- Her hair flyin tangled an wild: Shoo'd just been browt in aght o'th street, Wi drink an mud splashes defiled. Th' poleece sargent stood waitin to hear What charge agean her wod be made, He'd scant pity for them they browt thear, To be surly wor pairt ov his trade. "What name?" an he put it i'th' book,-- An shoo hardly seemed able to stand; As shoo tottered, he happened to luk saw summat claspt in her hand. "What's that? Bring it here right away! You can't take that into your cell;" "It's nothing." "Is that what you say? Let me have it and then I can tell." "Nay, nay! yo shall nivver tak this! It's dearer nor life is to me! Lock me up, if aw've done owt amiss, But aw'll stick fast to this wol aw dee!" "No nonsense!" he sed wi a frown, An two officers speedily came; Shoo seem'd to have soberer grown, But shoo fowt like a fiend, just the same. "Is it money or poison?" he sed,-- An unfolded it quickly to see; When sum in at fell aght,--soft an red, An it rested across ov his knee. 'Twor a wee babby's stockin,--just one, But his hard face grew gentle and mild, As he sed in his kindliest tone, "This stockin was worn by your child?" "Yes, sir,--an its all at aw have To remind me ov when aw wor pure, For mi husband an child are i'th' grave;-- Yo'll net tak it throo me, aw'm sewer!" "No, not for the world would I take Your treasure round which love has grown; Pray keep it for poor baby's sake;-- I once lost a child of my own." And he folded it up wi much care As he lukt at her agonized face;-- A face at had once been soa fair, But nah bearin th' stamp ov disgrace. "You seem soberer now,--do you think You could find your way home if you tried?" "Oh! yes, sir! God help me! It's Drink At has browt me to this, sir," shoo cried. "God help you! Be sure that He will; If you seek Him, He'll come to your aid; He is longing and waiting there still To receive you;--none need be afraid. The mother whose heart still retains The love for her babe pure and bright, May have err'd, but the hope still remains That she yet will return. Now, Good night."

With his kindly words still in her ears, An that little red sock in her breast; Shoo lukt up to Heaven through her tears; An her faith, in Christ's love did the rest.

Plain Jane.