Chapter 14

Plain Jane--plain Jane; This wor owd Butterworth's favourite strain: For wealth couldn't buy, Such pleasur an joy. As he had wi his owd plain Jane. Ther wor women who oft, Maybe, thinkin him soft, Who endeavoured to 'tice him away, But tho ther breet een, An ther red cheeks had been Quite enuffto lead others astray,-- All ther efforts wor lost, For he knew to his cost, 'At th' pleasur they promised browt pain, Soa he left em behind, Wol he went hooam to find, Purer pleasures i'th' arms o' plain Jane.

Plain Jane,--plain Jane,-- Owd Butterworth sed he'd noa cause to complain: Shoo wor hearty an strong, An could troll aght a song, An trubbles shoo held i' disdain, He'd not sell her squint For all th' brass i'th' mint, Nor pairt wi her blossomin nooas; He's no rival to fear, Soa he keeps i' gooid cheer, An cares nowt ha th' world comes or it gooas. Cats are all gray at neet, Soa when puttin aght th' leet, As he duckt under th' warm caanterpain, He sed, "Beauty breeds strife Oft between man an wife, But it ne'er trubbles me nor awr Jane."

Plain Jane,--plain Jane,-- To cuddle and coddle him allus wor fain; Shoo wod cook, stew or bake, Wesh and scaar for his sake, An could doctor his ivvery pain. Tho his wage wor but small Shoo ne'er grummeld at all, An if th' butter should chonce to run short; Her cake shoo'd ait dry, If axt why? shoo'd reply, Becoss aw know weel ther's nowt for't. But th' harstun wor cleean, Tho th' livin wor meean, An her karacter hadn't a stain; An owd Butterworth knows, As his bacca he blows, Ther's war wimmen ith' world nor owd Jane.

Cash V. Cupid.

Aw dooat on a lass wi' a bonny face, Wi' a twinkle ov fun in her ee;-- An aw like a lass 'at's some style an grace, An aw'm fond o' one winnin an shy. An ther's one 'at's a lot o' curly hair, An a temptinly dimpled chin, An one 'at's sedate an cold tho' fair, But shoo wod'nt be easy to win.

Ther's one 'at's a smile ivvery time we meet, An ther's one 'at seems allus sad; Yet ther's sum mat abaat 'em all seems sweet,-- Just a sum mat aw wish aw had. But somha aw connot mak up mi mind, Which one to seek for a wife; An its wise to be careful if love is blind, For a weddin oft lasts for a life.

Ther's one 'at has nawther beauty nor wit,-- Just a plain lukkin, sensible lass; But shoo's one thing 'at adds to her vally a bit,-- An that is 'at shoo's plenty o' brass. An beauty will fade an een will grow dim, Ther's noa lovin care can help that; An th' smartest young woman, tho' stylish an slim, May i' time grow booath clumsy an fat.

Soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by, For a workin chap must be a crank, 'At sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye, Nor in a snug sum in a bank. Some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this, An its nowt but her brass 'at aw want, Well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss, If they can,--why, they may,--but aw cant.

Mary's Bonnet.

Have yo seen awr Mary's bonnet? It's a stunner,--noa mistak! Ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it, An a feather daan her back. Yollo ribbons an fine laces, An a cock-a-doodle-doo, An raand her bonny face is A string o' pooasies blue.

When shoo went to church last Sundy, Th' parson could'nt find his text; An fat old Mistress Grundy Sed, "A'a, Mary! pray what next!" Th' lads wink'd at one another,-- Th' lasses snikered i' ther glee, An th' whooal o'th' congregation Had her bonnet i' ther ee.

Sooin th' singers started singin, But they braik daan one bi one, For th' hymn wor on "The flowers Of fifty summers gone." But when they saw awr Mary, They made a mullock on it, For they thowt 'at all them flaars Had been put on Mary's bonnet.

Then th' parson sed mooast kindly, "Ther wor noa offence intended; But flaar shows wor aght o' place, I'th' church whear saints attended. An if his errin sister wished To find her way to glory; Shoo should'nt carry on her heead, A whooal consarvatory."

Nah, Mary is'nt short o' pluck,-- Shoo jumpt up in a minnit, Shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church, An ivverybody in it. "Parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare,-- Nowt in it an nowt on it; Suppooas yo put some flaars thear, Like theas 'at's in my bonnet."

Prime October.

Ther's some fowk like watter, An others like beer; It doesn't mich matter, If ther heead is kept clear. But to guzzle an swill, As if aitin an drinkin Wor all a chap lives for, Is wrang to my thinkin.

Ivvery gooid thing i' life Should be takken i' reason; Even takkin a wife Should be done i'th' reight season. Tho' i' that case to give Advice is noa use, Aw should ne'er win fowk's thanks But might get some abuse.

But if ther's a fault 'At we owt to luk ovver, It's when a chap's tempted Wi' "prime old October." An to cheer up his spirits As nowt else on earth could, He keeps testin its merits, An gets mooar nor he should.

Ov coorse he'll be blamed If he gets ovver th' mark; An noa daat he'll feel shamed When he's throo wi' his lark. An he'll promise "it nivver Shall happen agean," Tho' he's feelin all th' time Just as dry as a bean.

But who can resist, When it sparkles an shines; An his nooas gets a whif At's mooar fragrant nor wines? Aw'd forgie a teetotaller At sich times, if he fell;-- For aw know ha it is, 'Coss aw've been thear mysel.

Old Dave to th' New Parson.

"Soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo? Well, awm fain to see yo've come; Yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst, But mak yorsen at hooam.

Aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me, If aw tell what's in mi noddle, Remember, if we dooant agree, It's but an old man's twaddle.

But aw might happen drop a hint, 'At may start yo to thinkin; Awd help yo if aw saw mi way, An do it too, like winkin.

Awm net mich up o' parsons,-- Ther's some daycent ens aw know; They're smart enuff at praichin, But at practice they're too slow.

For dooin gooid nooan can deny Ther chonces are mooast ample; If they'd give us fewer precepts, An rayther moor example.

We need a friend to help waik sheep, Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;-- Ther's a big responsibility Rests on a parson's shoulders.

But oft ther labor's all in vain, Noa matter ha persistent; Becoss ther taichin an ther lives Are hardly quite consistent.

Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in God, When bad is growing worse; An nowt abate ther trust, unless It chonce to touch ther purse.

They say, "Who giveth to the poor, Lends to the Lord," but yet, They all seem varry anxious, Net to get the Lord in debt.

But wi my fooilish nooations Mayhap yo'll net agree,-- Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,-- But it seems that way to me.

If yo hear a clivver sarmon, Yor attention it command's, If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white As what he keeps his hands.

Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways, An too mich affectation; They work i'th' vinyard a few days, Then hint abaat vacation.

He has to have a holiday Because he's worked soa hard;-- Well, aw allus think 'at labor Is desarvin ov reward.

What matters, tho' his little flock A shepherd's care is wantin: Old Nick may have his run o'th' fold Wol he's off galavantin.

Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one, Yo seem a gradely sooart; But if yo' th' Gospel armour don, Yo'll find it isn't spooart.

Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright, For a mess ov worldly pottage: But spend less time i'th' squire's hall An moor i'th' poor man's cottage.

Point aght the way an walk in it, They'll follow, one bi one, An when yo've gained yor journey's end, Yo'll hear them words, "Well done."

A Christian soldier has to be, Endurin, bold an brave; Strong in his faith he'll sewerly win, As sewer as my name's Dave."

Tom Grit.

He'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e, An his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be; For each one he met he'd a sally o' wit, For a jovjal soul wor this same Tom Grit. He climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride, For he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried; But he had noa fear, for he knew he could drive As weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive. Soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand, An prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned; But some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave, For they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave. It set off wi' a jerk when Tom touched it wi' th' whip, But his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip, An he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait, But it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight. Two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on, An ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none; Soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin,-- Then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in. It had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed, An it plunged an reared madly,--an then as if crazed It dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse, Woll Tom tried his utmost to steady his course. Wi' the reins raand his hands, an feet planted tight He strained ivvery muscle,--but saw wi' affright 'At the street o' the taan 'at he'd entered wor fill'd, Wi' fowk fleein wildly for fear they'd be kill'd, "Let it goa! Let it goa!" they cried aght as it pass'd, An Tom felt his strength givin way varry fast; His hands wor nah helpless its mad rush to check, But he duckt daan his heead an lapt th' reins raand his neck. That jerk caused the horse to loise hold o' the bit, An new hooap an new strength seem'd to come to Tom Grit, An tho' blooid throo his ears an his nooas 'gan to spurt, Th' horse wor browt to a stand, an ther'd nubdy been hurt. Then chaps went to hold it, an help poor Tom daan, For Tom's wor a favorite face i' that taan; "Tha should ha let goa," they all sed, "an jumpt aght, Thy life's worth a thaasand sich horses baght daat!" But Tom wiped his face an he sed as he smiled, "I'th' back o' that waggon yo'll find ther's a child, An aw couldn't goa back to its mother alooan, For he's all th' lad we have. Have yo nooan o' yer own?"

Th' Demon o' Debt.

We read ov a man once possessed ov a devil, An pity his sorrowful case; But at this day we fancy we're free from sich evil, An noa mooar have that trubble to face. But dooan't be deceived, for yo're nooan aght o' danger, Ther's a trap for yor feet ready set, An if to sich sorrow yo'd still be a stranger, Be careful to keep aght o' debt.

For debt is a demon 'at nivver shows pity, An when once yor fast in his grip, Yo may try to luk wise or appear to be witty, But he'll drive yo to wreck wi' his whip. He tempts yo to start wi' a little at furst, An then deeper an deeper yo get, Till at last yo find aght 'at yor life is accurst, An yo grooan under th' burden o' debt.

Then sweet sleep forsakes yo an tossin wi' care, Yo wearily wear neet away; An yor joys an yor hopes have all turned to despair, An yo tremmel at th' commin o' day. Yor een are daancast as yo walk along th' street, An yo shun friends yo once gladly met, The burden yo carry yo fancy they see 't;-- That soul-crushin burden o' debt.

Tak an old man's advice, if yo'd keep aght o' trubble, An let 'pay as yo goa,' be yor plan; Tho' yor comforts are fewer, yor joys will be double, An yo'll hold up yor heead like a man, Better far wear a patch on yor elbow or knee, Till yo're able a new suit to get, Nor be dressed like a prince, an whearivver yo be, To be dog'd wi' that Demon o' Debt.

Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother.

Aw like to see a lot o' lads All frolicsome an free, An hear ther noisy voices, As they run an shaat wi' glee; But if ther's onny sooart o' lad Aw like better nor another, 'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad, It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may be rayther dull at schooil, Or rayther slow at play; He may be rough an quarrelsome,-- Mischievous in his way; He may be allus in a scrape, An cause noa end o' bother; But ther's summat gooid an honest In the lad 'at loves his Mother.

He may oft do what isn't reight, But conscience will keep prickin; He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief, Nor what he'd fear a lickin. Her trubbled face,--her tearful een, Her sighs shoo tries to smother, Are coals ov foir on the heead Ov th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

When years have passed, an as a man He faces toil an care; An whear his mother used to sit Is but a empty chair;-- When bi his side sits her he loves, Mooar dear nor onny other, He still will cherish, love an bless, The mem'ry ov his Mother.

A guardian angel throo life's rooad, Her spirit still will be; An in the shadow ov her wings, He'll find security. A better husband he will prove, A father or a brother; For th' lad 'at maks the noblest man, Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother.

Matilda Jane.

Matilda Jane wor fat an fair, An nobbut just sixteen; Shoo'd ruddy cheeks an reddish hair, An leet blue wor her een. Shoo weighed abaat two hundred pund, Or may be rayther mooar, Shoo had to turn her sideways When shoo went aght o'th' door.

Shoo fairly dithered as shoo walked, Shoo wor as brooad as long; But allus cheerful when shoo tawk'd, An liked to sing a song; An some o'th' songs shoo used to sing, Aw weel remember yet; Aw thowt it sich a funny thing, Shoo pickt soa strange a set,

"Put me in my little bed," Aw knew they couldn't do; For onny bed to put her in, Must be big enuff for two. "Aw wish aw wor a burd," shoo sang, Aw nivver could tell why,-- For it wod be a waste o' wings Becoss shoo couldn't fly.

"I'd choose to be a Daisy," Aw didn't wonder at, For it must ha made her crazy To hug that looad o' fat. Then "Flitting like a Fairy;"-- To hear it gave me pain, For ther wor novvt soa airy Abaat Matilda Jane.

Last time aw heeard her singin, Shoo sang "You'll remember me," An mi arm crept pairtly raand her, As aw held her on mi knee. Ther's noa fear aw shall forget her, Tho' shoo's ne'er set thear agean, But if shoo will, aw'll let her, For aw like Matilda Jane.

Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack.

At Wibsey Slack lived modest Jack, No daat yo knew him weel; His cheeks wor red, his een wor black, His limbs wor strong as steel. His curly hair wor black as jet, His spirits gay an glad, An monny a lass her heart had set On Jack the Wibsey lad.

Sal Simmons kept a little shop, An bacca seld, an spice, An traitle drink, an ginger pop, An other things as nice. Shoo wor a widow, fat an fair, An allus neat an trim; An Jack seem'd fairly stuck on her; An shoo wor sweet on him.

But other lasses thowt they had A claim on Jack's regard; A widow to win sich a lad, They thowt wor very hard; They called her a designin jade, An one an all cried "Shame!" But Sally kept on wi her trade, An Jack went just the same.

One neet when commin hooam throo wark, They stopt him on his way, An pluckt up courage, as 't wor dark, To say what they'd to say. They sed they thowt a widow should Let lasses have a share, An net get ivvery man shoo could; They didn't think it fair,

Jack felt his heart goa pit-a-pat, His face wor burnin red; His heart wor touched,--noa daat o' that, But this wor what he sed. "Awd like to wed yo ivvery one, An but for th' law aw wod, But weel yo know if th' job wor done, They'd put me into quod."

"As aw can mak but one mi wife,-- Sal Simmons suits me weel; For aw wor ne'er wed i' mi life, An dooan't know ha awst feel. But if aw wed a widow, an Aw fail mi pairt to play; Shoo'll varry likely understand, An put me into th' way.

Work Lads!

Work if tha can, it's thi duty to labor; If able, show willin,--ther's plenty to do, Ther's battles to feight withaat musket or sabre, But if tha'll have pluck tha'll be safe to pool throo.

Ther's noa use sittin still wishin an sighin, An waitin for Fortun to gie yo a lift; For ther's others i'th' struggle an time keeps on flyin, An him who wod conquer mun show he's some shift.

Ther's nobbut one friend 'at a chap can depend on, If he's made up his mind to succeed in the strife; A chap's but hissen 'at he can mak a friend on, Unless he be blest wi' a sensible wife.

But nivver let wealth, wi' its glamour an glitter, Be th' chief end o' life or yo'll find when too lat, 'At th' fruits ov yor labor will all have turned bitter, An th' pleasures yo hoped for are all stale an flat.

Do gooid to yorsen, win wealth, fame, or power, But i'th' midst ov it all keep this object i' view; 'At the mooar yo possess, let yor self-love sink lower, An pure pleasur will spring from the gooid yo can do.

Bonny Yorksher.

Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi! Hard an rugged tho' thi face is; Ther's an honest air abaat thi, Aw ne'er find i' other places. Ther's a music i' thi lingo, Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley, As a drop ov Yorksher stingo Warms an cheers a body's bally. Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter, Nor thy modest moorland blossom, Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter Nor on thy green mossy bosom. Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather, Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin Hand i' hand wi' Peace, together Tales ov sweet contentment tellin. On the scroll ov fame an glory, Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten; History tells noa grander stooary, An it thrills me as aw listen. Young men blest wi' brain an muscle, Swarm i' village, taan an city, Nah as then prepared to tussle, Wi' the brave, the wise, the witty. An thy lasses,--faithful,--peerless,-- Matchless i' ther bloom an beauty,-- Modest, lovin, brave an fearless, Praad ov Hooam an firm to Duty. Aw've met nooan i' other places Can a cannle hold beside 'em; Rich i' charms an winnin graces;-- Aw should know becoss aw've tried 'em. Balmy breezes, blow yer mildest! Sun an shaars yer blessins shed! Thrush an blackburd pipe yor wildest Skylarks trill heigh ovverheead! Robin redbreast,--little linnet, Sing yor little songs wi' glee; Till wi' melody each minnit, Makin vocal bush an tree. Wild flaars don yer breetest dresses, Breathe sweet scents on ivvery gale; Stately trees wave heigh yer tresses, Flingin charms o'er hill an dale. Dew fall gently,--an sweet Luna, Keep thy lovin watch till morn;-- All unite to bless an prosper, That dear spot whear aw wor born.

Sixty an Sixteen.

We're older nor we used to be, But that's noa reason why We owt to mope i' misery, An whine an grooan an sigh.

We've had awr shares o' ups an daans, I' this world's whirligig; An for its favors or its fraans We needn't care a fig.

Let them, at's enterin on life Be worried wi' its cares; We've tasted booath its joys an strife, They're welcome nah to theirs.

To tak things easy owt to be An old man's futer plan, Till th' time comes when he has to dee,-- Then dee as weel's he can.

It's foolish nah to brood an freeat, Abaat what might ha been; At sixty we dooant see wi' th' een, We saw wi at sixteen.

Young shoolders worn't meant to bear Old heeads, an nivver will; Youth had its fling when we wor thear, An soa it will have still.

Aw wodn't live life o'er agean, Unless 'at aw could start Quite free throo knowledge o' this world, Quite free in heead an heart.

That perfect trust 'at childer have, Gives life its greatest charm; Noa wisdom after years can give, Will keep ther hearts as warm.

When nearin th' bottom o' life's hill, If we, when lukkin back, Can see some seeds ov gooid we've sown, Are bloomin on awr track;

Wol th' evil deeds we did shall be All trampled aght o' seet; Awr journey's end will peaceful be, An deeath itsen be sweet.

Then let's give thanks for mercies past, That've kept awr hearts still green; For thar't just as dear at sixty, lass, As when tha wor sixteen.

Come thi Ways in.

Come thi ways in, an God bless thi, lad! Come thi ways in, for thar't welcome, joy! A'a! tha'rt a shockin young taistrel, lad, But tha artn't as bad as they call thi, doy.

Tha'rt thi father upheeaped an daanthrussen, lad, It's his mother 'at knows what a glaid wor he;-- But thi britches' knees are booath brussen, lad, An thi jacket, its raillee a shame to see.

It's weel for thee tha's a gronny, lad,-- If it wornt for me tha'd be lost i' muck! Tha'rt wild, but tha'rt better ner monny, lad, An aw think 'at tha'll yet bring thi gronny gooid luck.

Nah, pool up to th' table an dry thi nooas;-- (Awd nooan leearn mi appron to onny but thee,) Wol tha'rt fillin thi belly aw'll patch up thi clooas, Then aw'll send thi hooam daycent an cleean tha'll see.

Nah, what are ta dooin wi' th' pussy cat, pray? If tha'll leeav it alooan it'll mell nooan o' thee, Put th' mustard spooin daan! Does ta hear what aw say! Let goa that cat tail! Ha tha aggravates me!

Tha mooant dip thi finger i'th' traitle pot, doy, (Tho' aw reckon tha follers th' example tha's set,) Mothers, nah days, dooan't know ha to train childer, joy, But tha'll heed what thi gronny says,--willn't ta, pet?

A'a, dear! nah tha's upset thi basin o' stew! All ovver thisen an mi cleean scarrd flooar:-- Tha clumsy young imp; what next will ta do? Tha'd wear aght job's patience, an twice as mich mooar!

Hold thi din! or aw'll gie thi a taste o' that strap! Tha maks it noa better wi' yellin like that! Come, whisht nah,--'twor nobbut a little mishap;-- Nah, whisht,--an tha'll see ha we'll leather yond cat.

Nah, dooan't touch mi thimel or needle an threead; Sit daan like a gooid little child as tha art; Wol aw wipe up this mess, an side th' butter an breead, Then aw'll gie thi a penny to buy thi a tart.

For tha puts me i' mind ov a time long ago, When thi father wor just sich a jockey as thee; An tho' aw'm a widdy, an poor as a crow, Ther'll be allus a bite an a sup for thee.

Tak thi booits off that fender! Tha's made it fair black; Just see ha tha's scratched it! Aw'm sewer it's a sin! Jump into theas clooas an fly hooam in a crack, Or aw'll braik ivvery booan 'at tha has i' thi skin!

An stop hooam, until tha knows ha to behave, Tha'd worrit my life aght i' less nor a wick! Tell thi mother aw'm net gooin to be just a slave To a taistrel like thee! soa nah, off tha gooas--Quick!

Horton Tide.

Wor yo ivver at Horton Tide? It wor thear 'at aw won mi bride; An the joy o' mi life, Is mi dear little wife, An we've three little childer beside.

Aw wor donn'd in a new suit o'clooas, A cigar wor stuck under mi nooas, Aw set aght for a spree, An some frolics to see, Full o' fun throo mi heead to mi tooas.

Aw met Lijah an Amos, an Bill, An ov coorse wi' each one aw'd a gill; Till aw felt rayther mazy, But net at all crazy, For aw didn't goa in for mi fill.

As a lad aw'd been bashful an shy, An aw blushed if a woman went by, But this day bi gooid luck, Aw felt chock full o' pluck, Soa to leet on aw sattled to try.

As aw wandered abaat along th' street, Who, ov all i' this world should aw meet! But Mary o' Jooas, Lukkin red as a rooas, A'a! but shoo wor bonny an sweet.

Aw nodded an walked bi her side, To mak misen pleasant aw tried, But shoo smiled as shoo sed, 'Aw wor wrang i' mi heead,' An aw'm sewer aw dooan't think 'at shoo lied.

Then aw bowt her some parkin an spice, An owt else 'at shoo fancied lukt nice, Then we tuk a short walk, An we had a long tawk; Then aw axt if shoo thowt we should splice.

What happen'd at after yo'll guess,-- It wor heaven to me, an nowt less;-- For aw left Horton Tide, Wi' a promised fair bride, Soa mi frolic wor craand wi' success.