Chapter 12

Soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit, Its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat; But aw'll have a day aght just bi th' way ov a change, For aw've moped i' yond miln wol aw raylee feel strange: For mi heead's full o'th' whirlin, O'th' twistin an twirlin;-- Mun aw'm feeard aw'st goa crackt if aw've nivver a change.

Then aw thowt o' mi wife an mi childer at hooam, An says aw, aw shall loise a day's wage if aw rooam; Green fields an wild flaars wor ne'er meant for me, Aw mun tew ivvery day wol mi time comes to dee; An then fowk 'll mutter, As aw'm tossed into th' gutter, "It's nobbut a wayver;--oh, fiddle-de-dee!"

Missin Yor Way.

It wor dark an mi way wor across a wild mooar, An noa signs could aw find ov a track, 'Twor a place whear aw nivver had rambled befooar; An aw eearnestly wished misen back. As aw went on an on mooar uneven it grew, An farther mi feet seem'd to stray, When a chap made me start, as he shaated "Halloa! Maister, yor missin yor way!"

Wi' his help aw contrived to land safely back hooam, An aw thowt as o'th' hearthstun aw set, What a blessin 'twod be if when other fowk rooam, They should meet sich a friend as aw'd met. An aw sat daan to write just theas words ov advice, Soa read 'em young Yorksher fowk, pray; An aw'st think for mi trubble aw'm paid a rare price, If aw've saved one throo missin ther way.

Yo lads 'at's but latly begun to wear hats, An fancy yor varry big men; Yo may fancy yor sharps when yor nowt nobbut flats,-- Be advised an tak care o' yorsen. Shun that gin palace door as yo'd shun a wild beast, Nivver heed what yor comrades may say, Tho' they call yo a fooil, an they mak yo ther jest, Stand stedfast,--they're missin ther way.

Shun them lasses, (God help 'em!) 'at wander throo th' streets, An cut sich a dash an a swell,-- Who simper an smirk at each chap 'at they meet, Flingin baits to drag victims to Hell. They may laff, they may shaat, they may join in a dance, They may spooart ther fine clooas an seem gay; But ther's sorrow within,--yo may see at a glance,-- Poor crayturs! they're missin ther way.

Luk at yond,--but a child,--what's shoo dooin thear? Shoo sewerly is innocent yet? Her face isn't brazen,--an see, ther's a tear In her ee an her checks are booath wet, They are tears ov despair, for altho' shoo's soa young, Shoo has sunk deep i' sin to obtain Fine feathers an trinkets, an nah her heart's wrung Wi' remorse, an shoo weeps wi' her pain.

But shoo's gooin away,--let us follo an see Whear her journey soa hurried can tend; Some danger it may be shoo's tryin to flee, Or maybe shoo's i' search ov a friend. Her hooam, once soa happy, shoo durs'nt goa thear, For shoo's fill'd it wi' sorrow an grief; An shoo turns her een upward, as if wi' a fear, Even Heaven can give noa relief.

Nah shoo's takken a turn, an we've lost her,--but Hark! What's that cry? It's a cry o' distress! An o'th' bridge we discover when gropin i'th' dark, A crushed bonnet, a mantle an dress. An thear shines the river, soa quiet an still, O'er its bed soa uncertain an deep; Can it be? sich a thowt maks one's blooid to run chill,-- Has that lass gooan for ivver to sleep?

Alas! soa it is. For shoo's takken a bound, An rashly Life's river shoo's crost; An th' wind seems to whisper wi' sorrowful sound, "Lost,--lost,--another one lost!" O, lads, an O, lasses! tak warnin i' time, Shun theas traps set bi Satan, whose bait May seem temptin; beware! they're but first steps to crime, Act to-day,--lest to-morrow's too late.

Heather Bells.

Ye little flowrets, wild an free, Yo're welcome, aye as onny! Ther's but few seets 'at meet mi ee 'At ivver seem as bonny. Th' furst gift 'at Lizzie gave to me, Wor a bunch o' bloomin heather, Shoo pluckt it off o'th' edge o'th' lea, Whear we'd been set together.

An when shoo put it i' mi hand, A silent tear wor wellin Within her ee;--it fell to th' graand, A doleful stooary tellin. "It is a little gift," shoo sed, "An sooin will fade an wither, Yet, still, befooar its bloom is shed, We two mun pairt for ivver."

I tried to cheer her trubbled mind, Wi' tender words endearin; An raand her neck mi arms entwined, But grief her breast wor tearin. "Why should mi parents sell for gold, Ther dowter's life-long pleasure? Noa charm 'at riches can unfold, Can match a true love's treasure."

"But still, aw mun obey ther will,-- It isn't reight to thwart it; But mi heart's love clings to thee still, An nowt but deeath can part it, Forgie me if aw cause a pang,-- Aw'll love thee as a brother,-- Mi heart is thine, an oh! its wrang, Mi hand to give another."

"Think on me when theas fields grow bare, An cold winds kill the flowers, Ov bitterness they have a share; Their lot is like to awrs. An if aw'm doomed to pine away, Wi' pleasure's cup untasted, Just drop a tear aboon the clay, 'At hides a young life wasted."

"Why should awr lot soa bitter be, Theas burds 'at sing together, When storms are commin off they flee, To lands ov sunny wreather? An nah, when trubbles threaten thee What should prevent thee gooin, An linkin on thi fate wi' me, Withaat thi parents knowin?"

"Tha knows my love is soa sincere, Noa risk can mak it falter, Soa put aside all daat an fear, An goa wi' me to th' altar I' one month's time my wife tha'll be,-- Or less if tha'll but shorten it." "Well then," says Lizzy, "aw'll agree, Tha'st have me in a fortnit."

Shoo laft an cried,--aw laft as weel, Aw feear'd shoo did'nt meean it; But Lizzie proved as true as steel,-- Her fowk sed nowt ageean it. An who that wealthy chap could be, Aw nivver shall detarmin, For if aw ax shoo glints wi' glee. An says, "Thee mind thi farmin."

An soa aw till mi bit o' graand, An oft when aght together, I'th' cooil o'th' day we saunter raand An pluck a sprig o' heather. Soa sweethearts nooat theas simple facts, An trust i' one another; A lass i' love ne'er stops to ax, Her fayther or her mother.

A Lucky Dog.

Tha'rt a rough en;--aye tha art,--an aw'll bet Just as ready. Tha ne'er lived as a pet, Aw can tell. Ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead; Net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead, Like mysel.

Tha'rt noa beauty;--nivver wor;--nivver will; Ther's lots like thee amang men,--but then still, Sich is fate; An its fooilish for to be discontent At a thing we've noa paar to prevent. That's true mate.

Why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell; If tha'rt seekin better luck,--its a sell, As tha'll find; Nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet, Aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet. Nivver mind.

Here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part,-- Gently, pincher! Tak thi time. Here tha art; That's thy share. Are ta chooakin? Sarve thi reight! Tak thi time! Why it's wasted, owt 'at's gien thee 'at's prime. Aw declare.

Are ta lukkin for some mooar? Tha's a cheek Tha mud nivver had a taste for a week, Tha'rt soa small; Aw've net tasted sin this nooin,--soa tha knows! Thi maath watters,--awm a fooil,--but here gooas, Tak it all.

Tha luks hungry even yet,-aw believe Tha'd caar thear as long as awd owt to give, But it's done. Are ta lost? Aw'll tell thi what tha'd best do Draand thisen! or let's toss up which o'th' two, Just for fun.

Come, heead or tail? If its heead then its thee, But net furst time,--we'll have two aght o' three,-- One to me. Nah, it's tail,--one an one,---fairly tost,-- If its tail a second time, then aw've lost; Two to thee.

Soa it's sattled, an tha's won;--aw've to dee, But aw think it weant meean mich to thee If aw dull; For if awm poor, life is still sweet to all, Deeath's walkin raand, he's pratty sewer to call, Sooin enuff.

Aw'll toss noa moor, awm aght o' luck to neet, Aw'll goa to bed, an tha can sleep baght leet Aw expect. If tha'd ha lost, as sewer as here's a clog, Tha'd had to draand, but thart a lucky dog, Recollect.

My Doctrine.

Aw wodn't care to live at all, Unless aw could be jolly! Let sanctimonious skinflints call All recreation folly.

Aw still believe this world wor made For fowk to have some fun in; An net for everlastin trade, An avarice an cunnin.

Aw dooant believe a chap should be At th' grinnel stooan for ivver; Ther's sewerly sometime for a spree, An better lat nor nivver.

It's weel enuff for fowk to praich An praise up self denial; But them 'at's forradest to praich, Dooant put it oft to trial.

They'd rayther show a thaasand fowk A way, an point 'em to it; Nor act as guides an stop ther tawk, An try thersens to do it.

Aw think this world wor made for me, Net me for th' world's enjoyment; An to mak th' best ov all aw see Will find me full employment.

"My race," they say, "is nearly run, It mightn't last a minnit;" But if ther's pleasure to be fun, Yo bet yor booits awm in it.

Aw wodn't care to live at all, Weighed daan wi' melancholy; My doctrine is, goa in for all, 'At helps to mak life jolly.

That Lass.

Awm nobbut a poor workin man, An mi wage leeavs me little to spare; But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can, An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair. 'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast, Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean; But th' one thing awm langin for mooast, Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

They may call me a fooil or a ass, To tawk abaat wantin a wife; But there's nowt like a true hearted lass, To sweeten a workinman's life. An love is a feelin as pure In a peasant as 'tis in a queen, An happy aw could be awm sewer, Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet, An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day; An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet, But its melted i'th' distance away. At mi lot aw cant help but repine, When aw think ov her bonny black een, For awm feeard shoo can nivver be mine; That grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

Mi Old Umberel

What matters if some fowk deride, An point wi' a finger o' scorn? Th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride, Befooar mooast o'th' scoffers wor born. But aw'll ne'er turn mi back on a friend, Tho' old-fashioned an grey like thisen; But aw'll try to cling to thi to th' end, Tho' thart nobbut an old umberel.

Whear wod th' young ens 'at laff be to-day, But for th' old ens they turn into fun? Who wor wearm thersen bent an grey, When their days had hardly begun. Ther own youth will quickly glide past; If they live they'll ail grow old thersel; An they'll long for a true friend at last, Tho' its nobbut an old umberel.

Tha's grown budgey, an faded, an worn, Yet thi inside is honest an strong; But thi coverin's tattered an torn, An awm feeard 'at tha cannot last long. But when th' few years 'at's left us have run, An to th' world we have whispered farewells; May they say at my duty wor done, As weel as mi old umberel's

What it Comes to.

Young Alick gate wed, as all gradely chaps do, An tuk Sally for better or war; A daycenter felly ne'er foller'd a ploo,-- Th' best lad ov his mother's bi far.

An shoo wor as nice a young lass as yo'll see In a day's march, aw'll wager mi hat; But yo know unless fowk's dispositions agree, Tho' they're bonny,--noa matter for that.

They'd better bi hawf have a hump o' ther rig, Or be favvor'd as ill as old Flew; If ther temper is sweet, chaps 'll net care a fig, Tho' his wife may have one ee or two.

Young Sally had nivver been used to a farm, An shoo seem'd to know nowt abaat wark; Shoo set wi' her tooas up o'th' fender to warm, Readin novels throo mornin to dark.

Alick saw 'at sich like gooins on wod'nt do, Soa one neet when they'd getten to bed, He tell'd her he thowt shoo'd best buckle too, Or else we'st be ruined, he sed.

Says Sally, "its cappin to hear thi awm sewer, For tha tell'd me befooar we wor wed, Tha'd be happy wi me, an tha wanted nowt mooar If aw nivver stirred aght o' mi bed."

"Tha sed aw wor bonny, an th' leets o' mi een Wor enuff for thi sunshine throo life; An tha tell'd me tha wanted to mak me a queen,-- But it seems 'at tha wanted a wife."

"Aw'm willin to own love's all reight in its way, An aw'm glad aw've discovered soa sooin 'At love withaat labor sooin dwindles away,-- For fowk can't live o' billin an cooin."

"That's my nooation too,--but aw thowt tha should try, What a wife as a laikon could be; Noa daat tha's fan livin o' love rayther dry, For aw'll own aw'd grown sickened o' thee."

Hold up yer Heeads.

Hold up yer heeads, tho' at poor workin men Simple rich ens may laff an may scorn; Maybe they ne'er haddled ther riches thersen, Somdy else lived befooar they wor born. As noble a heart may be fun in a man, Who's a poor ragged suit for his best, (An who knows he mun work or else he mun clam,) As yo'll find i' one mich better drest. Soa here's to all th' workers whearivver they be, I'th' land or i'th' loom or i'th' saddle; An the dule tak all them who wod mak us less free, Or rob us o'th' wages we haddle!

A Quiet Day.

A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen! To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way! Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen, An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.

If aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean, Aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak; What they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn, Except to spooart clooas o' ther back.

Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once, Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut; An its seldom a chap has a chonce;-- Whear the dickens has th' matches been put?

Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,-- It will'nt tak long will'nt that, An as sooin as its gotten burned breet, Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.

Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,-- Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp! It does nowt but splutter an smook, An this Hue's ov a varry poor stamp.

It's lukkin confaandedly black,-- Its as dismal an dull as mi hat; Nah, Sal leets a foir in a crack,-- Aw will give her credit for that.

Ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,-- Aw could ait em to ivvery meal; Aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,-- Its some trouble aw know varry weel.

Th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me! Aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet! Next time they set off for a spree, They'st net leeav me th' foir to leet.

Aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah, Aw can do wi' some milk an a cake; An fried taties they ne'er seem to me, Worth th' bother an stink 'at they make.

Whear's th' milk? Oh, its thear, an aw'm blest, That cat has its heead reight i'th' pot; S'cat! witta! A'a, hang it aw've missed! If aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot!

An th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane; It wor fooilish to throw it, that's true; Them 'at keep sich like cats are insane, For aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do.

Aw think aw'il walk aght for a while, But, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt! Aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style, An aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt.

It doesn't show varry mich thowt, When aw'm left wi' all th' haasewark to do, For fowk to set off an do nowt, Net soa mich as to blacken a shoe.

It'll be dinner time nah varry sooin,-- An ther's beefsteaks i'th' cubbord aw know; But aw can't leet that foir bi nooin, An aw can't ait beefsteak when its raw.

Aw tell'd Sal this morn 'at shoo'd find, A rare appetite up i' that Glen; An aw think if aw dooant change mi mind, Aw shall manage to find one misen.

Aw wor fooilish to send 'em away, But they'll ha to do th' best at they can; But aw'st feel reight uneasy all th' day,-- Wimmen's net fit to goa baght a man.

They've noa nooation what prices to pay, An they dooant know th' best places to call; Aw'il be bun it'll cost 'em to-day, What wod pay my expences an all.

It luks better, aw fancy, beside, When a chap taks his family raand; Nah, suppooas they should goa for a ride, An be pitched ovver th' brig an be draand.

Aw ne'er should feel happy ageean, If owt happen'd when aw wor away; An to leeav 'em i' danger luks meean, Just for th' sake o' mi own quiet day.

Aw could catch th' train at leeavs abaat nooin; E'e, gow! that'll be a gooid trick! An aw'st get a gooid dinner for gooin, An th' foir can goa to old Nick.

Its a pity to miss mi quiet day, But its better to do that 'at's reight; An it matters nowt what fowk may say, But a chap mun ha summat to ait,

Lass o'th Haley Hill.

O winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow, O sun, an stars an mooin! Aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know, An watched yo neet an nooin. But nah, yor paars to charm all flee, Altho' yor bonny still, But th' only beauty i' mi e'e, Is th' lass o'th Haley Hill.

Her een's my stars,--her smile's my sun, Her cheeks are rooases bonny; Her teeth like pearls all even run, Her brow's as fair as onny. Her swan-like neck,--her snowy breast,-- Her hands, soa seldom still; Awm fain to own aw love her best,-- Sweet lass o'th' Haley Hill.

Aw axt her i' mi kindest tone, To grant mi heart's desire; A tear upon her eyelid shone,-- It set mi heart o' foir. Wi' whispers low aw told mi love, Shoo'd raised her droopin heead; Says shoo, "Awm sooary for thi lad, But awm already wed; An if awr Isaac finds thee here,-- As like enuff he will,-- Tha'll wish 'at tha wor onnywhear, Away throo th' Haley Hill.

Ditherum Dump.

Ditherum dump lived i'th' haase behund th' pump, An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet, On his rig he'd a varry respectable hump, An his nooas end wor ruddy an breet. His een wor askew an his legs knock-a-kneed, An his clooas he could don at a jump; An th' queerest old covey 'at ivver yo seed, Wor mi naybor old Ditherum Dump.

Ditherum Dump he lived behund th' pump, An he grummel'd throo mornin to neet; An he sed fowk neglect one they owt to respect, An blow me, if aw think 'at its reet!

Yo mun know this old Ditherum lived bi hissen, For he nivver had met wi' a wife; An th' lasses all sed they'd have nooan sich like men, For he'd worrit 'em aght o' ther life. But he grinned as he caanted his guineas o' gold, An he called hissen "Jolly old trump!" An he sed, "tho' awm ugly, an twazzy, an old, Still ther's lots wod bi Mistress Dump."

Ditherum Dump,--Jolly old trump! Tho' tha'rt net varry hansum to th' seet, Yet ther's monny a lass wod be fain o' mi brass, For mi guineas are bonny an breet.

Soa he gethered his gold till he grew varry old, Wi' noa woman to sweeten his life; Till one day a smart lass chonced his winder to pass. An he cried, "That's the wench for my wife!" Soa he show'd her his bags runnin ovver wi' gold, An he axt her this question reight plump; "Tho' awm ugly an waspish, an getten soa old, Will ta come an be my Mistress Dump?"

"For Mistress Dump shall have gold in a lump, If tha'll tak me for better or worse;" Soa shoo says, "Awm yor lass, if yo'll leeav me yor brass, An aw'll promise to mak a gooid nurse."

Soa Ditherum Dump an this young lass gate wed, An th' naybors cried, "Shame! Fie,--for--shame!" But shoo cared net a button for all at they sed, For shoo fancied shoo'd played a safe game. Then Ditherum sickened an varry sooin deed, An he left her as rich as a Jew, An shoo had a big tombstun put ovver his heead, An shoo went into black for him too.

Nah, Mistress Dump, soa rooasy an plump, In a carriage gooas ridin up th' street; An th' lasses sin then all luk aght for old men, An they're crazy to wed an old freet.

My Polly.

My Polly's varry bonny, Her een are black an breet; They shine under her raven locks, Like stars i'th' dark o'th' neet.

Her little cheeks are like a peach, 'At th' sun has woo'd an missed; Her lips like cherries, red an sweet, Seem moulded to be kissed.

Her breast is like a drift o' snow, Her little waist's soa thin, To clasp it wi' a careless arm Wod ommost be a sin.

Her little hands an tiny feet, Wod mak yo think shoo'd been Browt up wi' little fairy fowk To be a fairy queen.

An when shoo laffs, it saands as if A little crystal spring, Wor bubblin up throo silver rocks, Screened by an angel's wing.

It saands soa sweet, an yet soa low, One feels it forms a part Ov what yo love, an yo can hear Its echoes in yor heart.

It isn't likely aw shall win, An wed soa rich a prize; But ther's noa tellin what strange things Man may do, if he tries.

Love one Another.

Let's love one another, it's better bi far; Mak peace wi yor Brother--it's better nor war! Life's rooad's rough enuff,--let's mak it mooar smooth, Let's sprinkle awr pathway wi kindness an love. Ther's hearts at are heavy, and een at are dim, Ther's deep cups o' sorrow at's full up to th' brim; Ther's want an misfortun,--ther's crime an ther's sin; Let's feight 'em wi Love,--for Love's sarten to win.

Give yor hand,--a kind hand,--to yor brother i' need, Dooant question his conduct, or ax him his creed,-- Nor despise him becoss yo may think he's nooan reight, For, maybe, some daat whether yo're walkin straight. Dooant set up as judge,--it's a dangerous plan, Luk ovver his failins,--he's nobbut a man; Suppooas at he's one at yo'd call 'a hard case,' What might yo ha been if yo'd been in his place?

Fowk praich abaat 'Charity,'--'pity the poor,' But turn away th' beggar at comes to ther door;-- "Indiscriminate Charity's hurtful," they say, "We hav'nt got riches to throw em away!" Noa! but if that Grand Book,--th' Grandest Book ivver writ, (An if ther's a true Book aw think at that's it,) Says "What yo have done to th' leeast one o' theas Yo did unto Me;"--Reckon that if yo pleeas.

Awm nooan findin fault,--yet aw cant help but see Ha some roll i' wealth, wol ther's some, starvin, dee; They grooan "it's a pity;--Poverty is a curse!" But they button ther pockets, an shut up ther purse. Ther's few fowk soa poor, but they could if they wod, Do summat for mankind.--Do summat for God. It wor Jesus commanded 'To love one another,' Ther's no man soa lost but can claim thee as Brother.

Then let us each one, do what little we can, To help on to comfort a less lucky man; Remember, some day it may fall to thy lot To feel poverty's grip, spite o' all at tha's got. But dooant help another i' hooaps at some day. Tha'll get it all back.--Nay, a thaasand times Nay! Be generous an just and wi th' futer ne'er bother;-- Tha'll nivver regret bein a friend to thi Brother.

Dick an Me.

Two old fogies,--Dick an me,-- Old, an grey as grey can be. A'a,-but monny a jolly spree We have had;-- An tha ne'er went back o' me;-- Bonny lad!

All thi life, sin puppy days We've been chums:--tha knows mi ways;-- An noa matter what fowk says, On we jog. 'Spite what tricks dame Fortun plays,-- Tha'rt my dog.

Th' world wod seem a dreary spot,-- All mi joys wod goa to pot;-- Looansum be mi little cot, Withaat thee; A'a, tha knows awst freeat a lot If tha'd to dee.

Once on a time we rammeld far O'er hills an dales, an rugged scar; Whear fowk, less ventersum, ne'er dar To set ther feet; An nowt wor thear awr peace to mar;-- Oh, it wor sweet!

But nah, old chap, thi limbs are stiff;-- Tha connot run an climb--but if Tha wags thi tail,--why, that's eniff To cheer me yet; An th' fun we've had o'er plain an cliff, Awst ne'er forget.

If aw, like Burns, could sing thi praise; Could touch the strings to tune sich lays-- Tha'd be enshrined for endless days I' deathless song; But Fate has will'd it otherways. Yet, love is strong.