Part 15

For shoo's one i' ten thaasand yo see; An shoo shows 'at shoo's suited wi' me, An yo chaps 'at want wives 'At will gladden yer lives, Up at Horton yo'll find 'em to be.

Mi Old Slippers.

Aw'm wearily trudgin throo mire an weet, For aw've finished another day's wark; An welcome to me is that flickerin leet, 'At shines throo mi winder i'th' dark. Aw know ther's mi drinkin just ready o'th' hob, An a hearthstun as cleean as can be, For that old wife o' mine allus maks it her job, To have ivverything gradely for me.

It isn't mich time aw can spend wi' th' old lass, For aw'm tewin throo early till lat, An its all aw can do just to get as mich brass As we need, an sometimes hardly that. But we keep aght o' debt, soa mi heart's allus leet, An aw sweeten mi wark wi' a song; An we try to mak th' best ov what trubbles we meet, An contentedly struggle along.

Two trusty old friends anent th' foir are set, They are waitin thear ivvery neet; They're nobbut a pair o' old slippers, but yet, They give comfort an rest to mi feet. Like misen an mi wife, they're fast wearin away,-- They've been shabby for monny a year; They have been a hansum pair once, aw can say, Yet to me they wor nivver mooar dear.

Aw hooap they may last wol aw'm summon'd away, An this life's journey peacefully ends; For to part wod feel hard, for at this time o'th' day, It's too lat to be makkin new friends. Aw know varry weel 'at ther end must be near, For aw see ha they're worn daan at th' heel; But they've sarved me reight weel, an aw'st ha nowt to fear, If aw've sarved His purpose as weel

A Friend to Me.

Poor Dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done, Deeath shut off his steam tother day; His engine, long active, has made its last run, An his boiler nah falls to decay. Maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well, An tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree; If he did onny harm it wor done to hissel:-- He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His heart it wor tender,--his purse it wor free, To a friend or a stranger i' need; An noa matter ha humble or poor they might be, At his booard they wor welcome to feed. Wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit, Yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree, An tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit, He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His word wor his bond, for he hated a lie, An sickophants doubly despised; He wor ne'er know to cringe to a rich fly-bi-sky, It wor worth an net wealth 'at he prized. Aw shall ne'er meet another soa honest an true, As aw write ther's a tear i' mi ee; Nah he's gooan to his rest, an aw'll give him his due,-- He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

A Pair o' Black Een.

One neet as aw trudged throo mi wark, Thinks aw, nah mi labor is done, Aw feel just inclined for a lark, For its long sin aw had onny fun.

An ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind, Shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that! For when on a spree aw'm inclined, Aw could nivver get on baght awr Mat.

Sally Slut wor a croney o' hers, A bonny an warm-hearted lass, An shoo'd latly been wed to a chap, 'At could booast booath some brains an some brass.

But someha, awr Mat seemed to think, 'At Sally, soa hansum an trim; For a partner throo life owt to luk Wi' somdy mich better nor him.

An shoo profiside trubble an care, Wor i' stoor at noa far distant day, An shoo muttered "poor Sal, aw declare, Tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away."

As sooin as aw gate hold o'th' sneck, Aw walked in wi' a sorrowful face, Then aw sank like a hawf empty seck Into th' furst seeat aw coom to i'th' place.

"Gooid gracious, alive! What's to do?" Says Matty, "whativver's amiss?" "A'a, lass! tha'll nooan think at its true,-- It's a tarrible come-off is this,"

"Tha knows Sally Slut,--A'a dear me! To-day as aw went across th' green, Aw met her,--an what should aw see,-- Why, shoo'd getten a pair o' black een,"

"That scamp! But aw'll sattle wi' him!" Says Mat, as shoo threw on her shawl,-- "Aw warned her agean weddin Tim,-- But aw'll let him see;--sharply an all!"

Off shoo flew an left me bi misen, An aw swoller'd mi teah in a sniff, An aw crept up to bed, thear an then,-- For aw knew shoo'd come back in a tiff.

An shoo did, in a few minnits mooar; An worn't shoo mad? nivver fear! An th' laader aw reckoned to snooar, An th' laader shoo skriked i' mi ear.

Tha thowt tha'd put me in a stew,-- But aw treeat sich like conduct wi' scorn! But tha didn't fooil me, for aw knew, Shoo'd black een ivver sin shoo wor born.

Shoo can booast ov her een,--that shoo can! But shoo's nowt at aw envy,--net me! Unless it's her bavin a man, Asteead ov a hawbuck like thee.

A Screw Lawse.

When rich fowk are feastin, an poor fowk are grooanin, Ther's summat 'at connot be reight. Wol one lot are cheerin, another lot's mooanin For want ov sufficient to ait. Ther must be a screw lawse i'th' social machine, An if left to goa on varry long, Ther'll as sewer be a smash as befoortime ther's been, When gross wrangs ov thooas waik mak em strong. Discontent may long smolder, but aght it'll burst, In a flame 'at ther efforts will mock; An they'll leearn when too lat, 'at they've met the just fate, Ov thooas who rob th' poor o' ther jock.

A Sad Mishap.

"Come, John lad, tell me what's to do, Tha luks soa glum an sad; Is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass? Or are ta poorly, lad? Has sombdy been findin fault, Wi' owt tha's sed or done? Or are ta bothered wi' thi loom, Wi' th' warp tha's just begun?

Whativver 'tis, lad, let me know,-- Aw'll help thi if aw can; Sometimes a woman's ready wit Is useful to a man. Tha allus let me share thi joys,-- Let's share when grief prevails; Tha knows tha sed aw should, John, I'th' front o'th' alter rails.

We've just been wed a year, lad, Come Sundy next but three; But if tha sulks an willn't spaik, Aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me. Aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, John, To be a wife to thee; Come tell me what's to do, John, Wol aw caar o' thi knee."

"Aw've brass enuff to pay mi way,-- Aw'm hearty as needs be;-- Ther's noabdy been findin fault, An aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee. But aw'm soa mad aw connot bide,-- For commin hooam to-neet, Mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth, An smashed to bits i'th' street. Aw cant think what aw could be doin, To let the blam'd thing drop! An a'a! it wor a beauty, An colored reight to th' top."

If.

Dear Jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot, Mi own bonny wife tha shall be; For trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot, For we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee.

We'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back, An aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens; Then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack, When thi fancy to sich a thing tends.

Some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans, Some pots an a kettle for tea; A bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers, An a rockin-cheer, lass,--that's for thee.

Some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall, To mak th' place luk nobby an neat; An a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm, An some slippers to put on thi feet.

An when Sundy comes,--off to th' chapel or church, An when we get back we'll prepare, Some sooart ov a meal,--tho its hooamly an rough, If its whooalsum we nivver need care.

If we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght, If it shows us its tempers an tiffs; Soa Jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state, Depends varry mich on theas "Ifs."

A True Tale.

Ther's a Squire lives at th' Hall 'at's lukt up to, As if he wor ommost a god. He's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver, An fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod. He keeps carriages, horses an dogs, For spooartin, or fancy, or labor, He's a pew set apart in a church, An he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor.

Ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet, Crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest; Her een strangely breet,--her face like a sheet, An her long hair hings ovver her breast. Want's shrivell'd her body to nowt, An vice has set th' stamp on her face; An her heart's grown soa callous an hard, 'At it connot be touched wi' disgrace.

Ther's a child bundled up i' some rags, 'At's whinin its poor life away; Neglected an starvin on th' flags, On this wild, cold an dree winter's day. An its father is dinin at th' Hall, An its mother is deein wi' th' cold, Withaat even a morsel o' breead, Yet its father is rollin i' gold.

Ther's a grey heeaded man an his wife, Who are bow'd daan wi' grief,--net wi' years:-- Ivver mournin a dowter they've lost, Ivver silently dryin ther tears. Shoo wor th' hooap an pride o' ther life, Till a Squire put strange thowts in her heead; Then shoo fled an they ne'er saw her mooar, Soa they mourn her as if shoo wor deead.

Ther's One up aboon sees it all; He values noa titles nor brass, He cares noa mooar for a rich Squire, Nor He does for a poor country lass, His messengers now hover near, Till that mother an child yield ther breath, An th' Squire has noa longer a fear, For his secret is lockt up in death.

Peter's Prayer.

His face wor varry thin an pale, His een wor strangely breet; His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale, An shooless wor his feet. His teeth they chattered in his heead, His hands had lost ther use, He humbly begg'd a bite o' breead, But nobbut gate abuse.

A curse wor tremblin on his tongue, But with a mad despair, He curbed it wi' an effort strong, An changed it for a prayer. "Oh, God!" he cried, "spare,--spare aw pray! Have mercy an forgive; Befooar too lat, show me some way My wife an bairns can live!"

"Aw read i'th' papers ivvery day, Ov hundreds,--thaasands spent For shot an shell, an things to swell This nation's armament. Into fowk's hearts, oh, God! instil A love ov peace, an then, Maybe we'st have some better times, An men can help thersen.

Aw nobbut want a chonce to live, One cannot wish for less; Wars fill this world wi' misery,-- Peace gives us happiness. If monarchs dooant get quite as mich, Ther joys need not decrease;-- Pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;-- We've but one soul apiece."

Mak th' Best Ont.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--tho' th' job be a bad en, God bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat! This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en, If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.

Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet, Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess; Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it, 'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--ne'er heed if yor naybor Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave; Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor, An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.

Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit, 'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front; It's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,--is it? Soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--if Fortune should favor, An a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap, 'Twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor, If yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap.

Depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly, As just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot; For freeatin at best is a waste an a folly, An it nivver will help to mend matters a jot.

On Strike.

He wandered slipshod through the street, His clothes had many a rent; His shoes seemed dropping from his feet, His eyes were downward bent. His face was sallow, pale and thin, His beard neglected grew, Upon his once close shaven chin, Like bristles sticking through.

I'd known him in much better state, As "old hard-working Mike," I asked, would he the cause relate? Said he, "Awm aght on th' strike. Yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus, Aw'm shamed to meet a friend; It's varry hard on th' mooast on us, We wish 't wor at an end.

Aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase, An see mi childer pine; They havn't what'll feed a maase, But that's noa fault o' mine. Th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan,-- Shoo addles all we get, Wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan, I' sorrow, rags an debt.

But then yo know it has to be, Th' committee tells us that; They owt to know,--but as for me, Aw find it's hard,--that's flat. They say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar Nor we can ivver guess;-- But th' sufferin they may endure, Maks mine noa morsel less.

But then th' committee says it's reight; Soa aw mun rest content, An we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight, What comes o' jock or rent. Aw dooant like to desart mi mates, But one thing aw dooant like; When th' table shows but empty plates It's hard to be on th' strike.

Gooid day,--for cake awst ha to fend, Them childer's maaths to fill; Th' committee say th' strike sooin will end; Aw hooap to God it will."

Be Happy.

Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel, At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it; If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel, They try to pick faults in a minnit.

We all have a strinklin o' care, An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble, But aw think its unkind, an unfair, To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.

Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,-- If it does they find cause for complainin; Discontented when th' weather wor fine, They start findin fault if its rainin.

Aw hate sich dissatisfied men, An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa, Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen, Aght o'th' world,--like a Robinson Crusoe.

To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less, Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful; When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless, Ov happiness let's have a skinful.

Aw truly mooast envy that man, Who's gladly devotin his leisure, To mak th' world as breet as he can, An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.

It's true ther's hard wark to be done, An mooast on us drop in to share it; But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun, Why, we're far better able to bear it.

May we live long surraanded wi' friends, To enjoy what is healthful an pure; An at last when this pilgrimage ends, We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.

Its True.

Ther's things i'plenty aw despise;-- False pride an wild ambition; Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise, An better his condition. Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul, I' breast ov peer or ploughman, But what aw hate the mooast ov all, Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.

For let ther faults be what they may, He proves 'at he's a low man, Who lifts his hand bi neet or day, An strikes a helpless woman.

Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,-- Ther tempers may be fiery, But passions even dwell inside The convent an the priory. An all should think where'er we dwell, Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman; We're net sich perfect things ussel, As to despise a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

It's true old Eve first made a slip, An fill'd this world wi' bother; But Adam had to bite his lip,-- He couldn't get another. An tho' at th' present day they swarm, That chap proves his own foeman, Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm, An twine it raand a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

A chap may booast he's number one, An lord it o'er creation; May spaat an praich, but when he's done, He'll find his proper station. He may be fast when at his best, But age maks him a slow man, An as he sinks, he's fain to rest, On some kind-hearted woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt, For that cold-hearted duffer, Who glories o'er a woman's fault, An helps to mak her suffer. Ther's net a cock e'er flapt a wing, 'At had th' same reight to crow, man; As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring, Has made a happy woman.

Then let ther faults be what they will, Ther net for me to show, man; But if yo seek for comfort, still, Yo'll find it in a woman.

Natty Nancy.

"Mooar fowk get wed nor what do weel," A've heeard mi mother say; But mooast young lads an lasses too, Think just th' contrary way. An lasses mooar nor lads it seems, To wed seem nivver flaid; For nowt they seem to dreead as mich As deein an old maid. But oft for single life they sigh, An net withaat a cause, When wi' ther tongue they've teed a knot, Ther teeth's too waik to lawse. Days arn't allus weddin days, They leearn that to ther sorrow, When panics come an th' brass gets done, An they've to try to borrow. When th' chap at th' strap shop's lukkin glum, An hardly seems to know yo; An gooas on sarvin other fowk As if he nivver saw yo. An when yo're fain to pile up th' foir, Wi' bits o' cowks an cinders;-- When poverty says, "here' aw've come," Love hooks it aght o'th' winders. Friends yo once had are far too thrang To ax yo to yer drinkin; They happen dunnot meean owt wrang,-- But one cannot help for thinkin. An when yo're lukkin seedy like, Wi' patched an tattered clooas; Yo'll find when yer coit elbows gape, Sich friends oft shut ther doors. Ther are poor fowk 'at's happier far, Nor rich ens,--ther's noa daat on't, For brass cannot mak happiness, But sewerly it's a pairt on't. Aw'll tell yo ov a tale aw heeard,-- It's one 'at tuk mi fancy,-- Abaat a young chap an his wife, They called her Natty Nancy. They called her Natty, yo mun know Becoss shoo wor soa clivver, At darnin, cookin, weshin clooas Or onny job whativver. Well, they began as monny do 'At arn't blest wi' riches; He hugg'd all th' fortun he possessed I'th' pocket ov his britches. It worn't mich, it wodn't raich Aboon a two-o'-three shillin; But they wor full ov hooap an health, An they wor strong an willin. An fowk wor capt to see ha sooin Ther little cot grew cooasy; Shoo'd allus summat cheerful like, If't nobbut wor a pooasy. Soa time slipt on, an all went weel When Dick sed, "Natty, lass, A-latly aw've begun to feel Aw'st like a bigger haase. For when aw tuk this cot for thee, We'd nubdy but ussen; But sin that lad wor born ther's three, An ther'll sooin be four, an then?" "Why, Dick," shoo sed, "just suit thisen, Here's raam enuff for me; But if tha'rt anxious for a change, Aw'm willin to agree." Soa sooin they tuk a bigger haase, They tew'd throo morn to neet, To mak it smart, an varry sooin 'Twor th' nicest haase i'th' street. An when a little lass wor born They thowt ther pleasur double; But Dick, alas! had nah to taste A little bit o' trubble. For times wer growin varry hard, An wark kept gettin slacker; He'd furst to goa withaat his ale, An then to stop his bacca. But even that did net suffice To keep want at a distance, An they'd noa whear i'th' world to turn, To luk for some assistance. An monny a time he left his meal Untouched, tho' ommost pinin; An trail'd abaat, i' hooaps to find Some breeter fortun shinin. For long he sowt, but sowt in vain, Although his heart wor willin To turn or twist a hundred ways, To get an honest shillin. One day his wife coom back throo th' shop, Her heart seem'd ommost brustin; Shoo sob'd, "Oh, Dick,--what mun we do, Th' shop keeper's stall'd o' trustin. We've nowt to ait, lad, left i'th' haase,-- Aw know th' fault isn't thine, But th' childer's bellies mun be fill'd Tho' thee an me's to pine." Dick seized his hat an aght o'th' door He flew like somdy mad, Detarmined 'at he'd get some brass, If brass wor to be had. He furst tried them he thowt his friends, An tell'd his touchin stooary; They button'd up ther pockets As they sed, "We're varry sooary." They tell'd him to apply to th' taan, Or sell his goods an chattels; Dick felt at last 'at he'd to feight One o' life's hardest battles. For when he'd tried 'em ivvery one He fan aght to his sorrow, 'At fowk wi' brass have far mooar friends, Nor them 'at wants to borrow. Wi' empty hands, hooamwards he went, An thear on th' doorstep gleamin, Wor ligg'd a shillin, raand an white;-- He thowt he must be dreamin. He rub'd his een, an eyed it o'er, A-feeard lest it should vanish, He sed, "some angel's come aw'm sewer, Awr misery to banish." He pickt it up an lifted th' sneck, Then gently oppen'd th' door, An thear wor Nancy an his bairns, All huddled up o'th' flooar. "Cheer up!" he sed, "gooid luck's begun, Here,--tak this brass an spend it; It isn't mine, lass, but aw'm sewer Aw think the Lord has sent it." A'a! ha her heart jumpt up wi' joy! Shoo felt leet as a feather; An off shoo went an bowt some stuff, Then they set daan together. Befooar they'd weel begun, at th' door, They heeard a gentle tappin, "Goa Dick," shoo sed, "luk sharp,--awm sewer Aw heead sombody rappin." It wor a poor old beggar man Who ax'd for charity; "Come in!" sed Dick, "it's borrow'd stuff, But tha shall share wi' me. Soa set thi jaws a waggin lad,-- It's whooalsum, nivver heed it, An if tha ivver has a chonce, Pay back to them 'at need it." Wi' th' best they had th' old chap wor plied, An but few words wor spokken, Till th' old chap pushed his plate aside, An silence then wor brokken. "Aw'm varry old an worn," he sed, This life's soa full o' cares, Yet have aw sometimes entertained An angel unawares. Ther's One aboon reads ivvery heart, An them 'at he finds true, Altho' He tries 'em sooar,--at last, He minds to pool 'em throo. Then nivver let yor faith grow dim, Altho yo've hard to feight; Just let yer trust all rest o' Him, An He'll put all things straight, He quietly sydled aght o'th' door, An when they lukt araand, A purse they'd nivver seen befooar Wor liggin up o'th' graand. Dick pickt it up--what could it be? He hardly dar to fancy;-- "Why, its addressed to thee an me! To Dick an Natty Nancy!"

They oppened it wi' tremblin hands, An when they saw the treasure; 'Twor hard to say which filled 'em mooast, Astonishment or pleasur. Ther wor a letter for 'em too, An this wor ha it ended,-- "You once helped me, may this help you,-- From one you once befriended,"

They nivver faand aght who he wor, Altho' they spared noa labor; But for his sake they ne'er refuse To help ther needy naybor.

Fugitive poems.

By John Hartley.

Not written in the Yorkshire Dialect.

Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893.

On the sixteenth of June, eighteen eighty-three, The children of Sunderland hastened to see, Strange wonders performed by a mystic man, Believing,--as only young children can. And merry groups chattered, as hand in hand, They careered through the streets of Sunderland.

In holiday dress, and with faces clean, And hearts as light as the lightest, I ween;-- The hall was soon crowded, and wondering eyes, Expressed their delight at each fresh surprise; The sight of their bright, eager faces was grand,-- Such a mass of fair blossoms of Sunderland.

With wonder and laughter the moments fly, And the wizard at last bade them all good-bye, But not till he promised that each one there, In his magical fortune should have a share;-- Such a wonderful man with such liberal hand, Had never before been in Sunderland.

They danced, and they shouted, and full of glee, They rushed to find out what these presents could be, And the sea of young faces was borne along, Until checked by a barrier, stout and strong; And then the bright current was brought to a stand, And a heart piercing shriek rang through Sunderland.