Chapter 5

Ha weel aw remember that big Christmas puddin, That puddin mooast famous ov all in a year; When each lad at th' table mud stuff all he could in, An ne'er have a word ov refusal to fear. Ha its raand speckled face, craand wi' sprigs o' green holly Seem'd sweeatin wi' juices ov currans an plums; An its fat cheeks made ivvery one laff an feel jolly, For it seem'd like a meetin ov long parted chums, That big Christmas pudding,--That rich steamin puddin,-- That scrumptious plum puddin, mi mother had made.

Ther wor father an mother,--awr Hannah an Mary, Uncle Tom an ont Nancy, an smart cussin Jim; An Jim's sister Kitty, as sweet as a fairy,-- An Sam wi' his fiddle,--we couldn't spare him. We'd rooast beef an mutton, a gooise full o' stuffin, Boil'd turnips an taties, an moor o' sich kind; An fooamin hooam brewed,--why,--aw think we'd enuff in, To sail a big ship if we'd been soa inclined. An then we'd that puddin--That thumpin big puddin-- That rich Christmas puddin, mi mother had made.

Sam sat next to Mary an Jim tuk awr Hannah, An Kitty ov coorse had to sit next to me,-- An th' stuff wor sooin meltin away in a manner, 'At mi mother declared 't wor a pleasur to see. They wor nowt could be mended, we sed when it ended, An all seem'd as happy as happy could be; An aw've nivver repented, for Kitty consented, An shoo's still breet an bonny an a gooid wife to me. An aw think o' that puddin,--That fateful plum puddin,-- That match makkin puddin mi mother had made.

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick, Sent flyin at mi heead; Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps, Whearivver they may leead; Aw'd rayther ventur in a den, An stail a lion's cub; Aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave In an old leaky tub. Aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray, Whear bullets thickest shower; Nor trust a mean, black hearted man, At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark, A madman change his whim; A lion may forgive a theft; A leaky tub may swim. Bullets may pass yo harmless by, An leeav all safe at last; A thaasand thunders shake the sky, An spare yo when they've past. Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease; Mak poverty yo're friend; But wi' a mean, blackhearted man, Noa mortal can contend.

Ther's malice in his kindest smile, His proffered hand's a snare; He's plannin deepest villany, When seemingly mooast fair. He leads yo on wi' oily tongue, Swears he's yo're fastest friend; He get's yo once within his coils, An crushes yo i'th' end. Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin aght, An seeks whom to devour; But he's a saint, compared to some, 'At's th' luk to be i' power.

Fairly Weel-off.

Ov whooalsum food aw get mi fill,-- Ov drink aw seldom want a gill; Aw've clooas to shield me free throo harm, Should winds be cold or th' sun be warm.

Aw rarely have a sickly spell,-- Mi appetite aw'm fain to tell Ne'er plays noa scurvy tricks on me, Nowt ivver seems to disagree.

Aw've wark, as mich as aw can do,-- Sometimes aw laik a day or two,-- Mi wage is nobbut small, but yet, Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.

Mi wife, God bless her! ivvery neet Has slippers warmin for mi feet; An th' hearthstun cleean, an th' drinkin laid, An th' teah's brew'd an th' tooast is made.

An th' childer weshed, an fairly dressed, Wi' health an happiness are blest; An th' youngest, tho' aw say't misen, Is th' grandest babby ivver seen.

Aw've friends, tho' humble like misen, They're gradely, upright, workin-men, They're nooan baght brains oth' sooart they're on;-- They do what's reight as near's they con.

Aw tak small stock i' politics, For lib'ral shams an tooary tricks, Have made me daat 'em one an all;-- Ther words are big, but deeds are small.

Aw goa to th' chapil, yet confess Aw'm somewhat daatful, moor or less, For th' chaps at cracks up gloory soa, Ne'er seem in onny haste to goa.

To me, religion seems quite plain;-- Aw cause noa fellow-mortal pain, Aw do a kind act when aw can, An hooap to dee an honest man.

Aw hooap to live till old an gray, An when th' time comes to goa away, Aw feel convinced some place ther'll be, Just fit for sich a chap as me.

Green fields, an trees, an brooks, an flaars, Are treasures we can all call awrs, An when hooam is earth's fairest spot One should be thankful for his lot.

Aw'm nooan contented,--nay, net aw! Aw nivver con be tho' aw try; But aw enjoy th' gooid things aw have, An if aw for moor blessins crave, It's more for th' sake o'th' wife an bairns, To spare them my life's ups an daans.

Well, yo may laff, an sneerin say, Aw'm praad an selfish i' mi way;-- Maybe aw am,--but yo'll agree, Ther's few fowk better off nor me.

A Warnin.

A'a dear, what it is to be big! To be big i' one's own estimation, To think if we shake a lawse leg, 'At th' world feels a tremblin sensation. To fancy 'at th' nook 'at we fill, Wod be empty if we worn't in it, 'At th' universe wheels wod stand still, If we should neglect things a minnit.

To be able to tell all we meet, Just what they should do or leeav undone; To be crammed full o' wisdom an wit, Like a college professor throo Lundun. To show statesmen ther faults an mistaks,-- To show whear philosifers blunder; To prove parsons an doctors all quacks, An strike men o' science wi' wonder.

But aw've nooaticed, theas varry big men, 'At strut along th' streets like a bantam, Nivver do mich 'at meeans owt thersen, For they're seldom at hand when yo want 'em. At ther hooam, if yo chonce to call in, Yo may find 'em booath humble an civil, Wol th' wife tries to draand th' childer's din, Bi yellin an raisin the devil.

A'a dear, what it is to be big! But a chap 'at's a fooil needn't show it, For th' rest o'th' world cares net a fig, An a thaasand to one doesn't know it. Consait, aw have often heeard say, Is war for a chap nor consumption, An aw'll back a plain chap onny day, To succeed, if he's nobbut some gumpshun.

My advice to young fowk is to try To grow honestly better an wiser; An yo'll find yor reward by-an-by,-- True merit's its own advertiser. False colors yo'll seldom find fast, An a mak-believe is but a bubble, It's sure to get brussen at last, An contempt's all yo'll get for yor trouble.

To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester. Born at Hull, November, 1806. Died at Beeston, near Nottingham, March 13th, 1892.

Wallett, old friend! Thy way's been long;-- Few livin can luk farther back; But tha has left, bi jest an song, A sunny gleam along thy track. Aw'm nursin nah, mi childer's bairns, Yet aw remember when a lad, Sittin an listnin to thy yarns, An thank thi nah, for th' joys aw had.

Full monny a lesson, quaintly towt, Wi' witty phrase, sticks to me still; Nor can aw call to mind ther's owt Tha sed or did, to work me ill! Noa laff tha raised do aw regret,-- Wit mixed wi' wisdom wor thy plan, Which had aw heeded, aw admit, Aw should ha been a better man.

Aw'd like to meet thee once agean, An clink awr glasses as of yore, An hear thi rail at all things meean, An praise an cheer the honest poor. Aw'd like to hear th' owd stooaries towld, 'At nobbut tha knows ha to tell;-- Unlike thisen they ne'er grow old;-- A'a dear! Aw'm growin owd misel.

We'st miss thee, Wallett, when tha goas, (May that sad time be far away; For when tha doffs thi motley clooas, An pays that debt we all mun pay,) We'st feel ther's one link less to bind, Us to this 'vain an fleetin show,' An we'st net tarry long behind,-- We may goa furst for owt we know.

Well,--if noa moor aw clasp thi hand,-- Noa moor enjoy thy social chat,-- Aw send thi from this distant land, True friendship's greetin,--This is that. May ivvery comfort earth can give, Be thine henceforward to the end, An tho' the sea divides, believe Ther's one who's proud to call thee friend.

Lads an Lasses.

Lads an lasses lend yor ears Unto an old man's rhyme, Dooant hurry by an say wi' sneers, It's all a waste o' time. Some little wisdom yo may gain, Some trewth yo'll ne'er forget: Soa blame me net for spaikin plain, Yo'll find it's better net.

For yo, life's journey may be long, Or it may end to-day; Deeath gethers in the young an strong, Along wi' th' old an gray. Then nivver do an unkind thing, Which yo will sure regret, Nor utter words 'at leeav a sting,-- Yo'll find it's better net.

If yo've a duty to get throo, Goa at it with a will, Dooant shirk it 'coss it's hard to do, That mak's it harder still. Dooant think to-morn is time enuff For what to-day is set, Nor trust to others for ther help, Yo'll find it's better net.

If little wealth falls to yor share, Try nivver to repine; But struggle on wi' thrift an' care,-- Some day the sun will shine. It's better to be livin poor, Than running into debt, An bavin duns coom to yor door;-- Yo'll find it's better net.

When tempted bi some jolly friend, To join him in a spree, Remember sich things sometimes end I' pain an misery. Be firm an let temptations pass As if they'd ne'er been met, An nivver drain the sparklin glass;-- Yo'll find it's better net.

Mak trewth an honesty yor guide, Tho' some may laff an rail, Fear net, whativver ills betide, At last yo must prevail. Contented wi' yor portion be Nor let yor heart be set, On things below 'at fade an dee,-- Yo'll find it's better net.

A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,--bare wor his feet, His 'een wor swell'd an red, Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,-- A cold doorstep his bed. His little curls wor drippin weet, His clooas wor thin an old, His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,-- His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, An snowflakes whirled abaat,-- It wor a sorry sooart o' neet, For poor souls to be aght. 'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, Could shine throo sich a storm;-- Unless some succour turns up sooin, God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,-- A sarvent oppens th' door; A lady wi' a pale sad face, Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. Her 'een fell on that huddled form, Shoo gives a startled cry; Then has him carried aght o'th' storm, To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, An monny a tear shoo shed; For shoo'd once had a darlin lad But he, alas! wor dead. This little waif seemed sent to cheer, An fill her darlin's place; An to her heart shoo prest him near, An kissed his little face.

Matty's Reason.

"Nah, Matty! what meeans all this fuss? Tha'rt as back'ard as back'ard can be; Ther must be some reason, becoss It used to be diff'rent wi' thee.

Aw've nooaticed, 'at allus befoor If aw kussed thi, tha smiled an lukt fain; Ther's summat nooan reight, lass, aw'm sewer, Tha seems i' soa gloomy a vein.

If tha's met wi' a hansomer chap, Aw'm sewer aw'll net stand i' thi way; But tha mud get a war, lass, bi th' swap,-- If tha'rt anxious aw'll nivver say nay.

But tha knows 'at for monny a wick Aw've been savin mi brass to get wed; An aw'd meant thee gooin wi' me to pick Aght some chairs an a table an bed.

Aw offer'd mi hand an mi heart; An tha seemed to be fain to ha booath; But if its thi wish we should part, To beg on thi, nah, aw'd be looath.

An th' warst wish aw wish even yet,-- Is tha'll nivver get treeated soa meean;-- Gooid neet, Matty lass, nivver freeat, Tha'll kuss me when aw ax thi agean."

"Nah, Jimmy lad, try to be cooil,-- Mi excuse tha may think is a funny en; Aw've nowt agean thee, jaylus fooil, But thi breeath savoors strongly o' oonion." Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght Wi' cold an wind an weet. Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in A little cosy bed, An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize, Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies A New Year's gift throo God. An happiness nah fills her heart, 'At wor wi' sorrow cleft; Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift. A New Year's Gift.

A little lad,--bare wor his feet, His 'een wor swell'd an red, Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet,-- A cold doorstep his bed. His little curls wor drippin weet, His clooas wor thin an old, His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet,-- His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street, An snowflakes whirled abaat,-- It wor a sorry sooart o' neet, For poor souls to be aght. 'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin, Could shine throo sich a storm;-- Unless some succour turns up sooin, God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase,-- A sarvent oppens th' door; A lady wi' a pale sad face, Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor. Her 'een fell on that huddled form, Shoo gives a startled cry; Then has him carried aght o'th' storm, To whear its warm an dry.

Shoo tended him wi' jewelled hands, An monny a tear shoo shed; For shoo'd once had a darlin lad But he, alas! wor dead. This little waif seemed sent to cheer, An fill her darlin's place; An to her heart shoo prest him near, An kissed his little face.

Wi' wonderin 'een he luk't abaat, Dazzled wi' th' blaze o' leet, Then drooped his heead, reight wearied aght Wi' cold an wind an weet. Then tenderly shoo tuckt him in A little cosy bed, An kissed once moor his cheek soa thin, An stroked his curly head.

Noa owner coom to claim her prize, Tho' mich shoo feear'd ther wod, It seem'd a blessin dropt throo th' skies A New Year's gift throo God. An happiness nah fills her heart, 'At wor wi' sorrow cleft; Noa wealth could tempt her nah to part, Wi' her Heaven sent New Year's gift.

Uncle Ben.

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben As ivver lived i'th' fowd: He made a fortun for hissen, An lived on't when he'r owd. His yed wor like a snow drift, An his face wor red an breet, An his heart wor like a feather, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas He'd worn sin aw wor bred; An th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, An th' same hat for his yed; His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing Throo braik o' day till neet; His conscience nivver felt a sting, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wod'nt swap his humble state Wi' th' grandest fowk i'th' land; He nivver wanted silver plate, Nor owt 'at's rich an grand; He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk Drawn raand him ov a neet, But he slept noa war for th' want o' that, For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.

Owd fowk called him "awr Benny," Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"-- An th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," Or what best pleased thersen. A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face When he heeard ther patterin feet, For he loved to laik wi th' little bairns An he did the thing 'at's reet.

He nivver turned poor fowk away Uncared for throo his door; He ne'er forgate ther wor a day When he hissen wor poor; An monny a face has turned to Heaven, All glistenin wi' weet, An prayed for blessins on owd Ben, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He knew his lease wor ommost spent, He'd sooin be called away; Yet he wor happy an content, An waited th' comin day. But one dark neet he shut his e'en, An slept soa calm an sweet, When mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'At did the thing 'at's reet.

A Hawporth.

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam? What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb? Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face; Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place. What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name; Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame. Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice, Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice. Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can; Thear,--tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.

He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat, An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what; But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:-- A'a!--its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.

Th' Better Part.

A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait, Wi' body bent, an snowy pate, Aw met one day;-- An daan o'th' rooad side grassy banks He sat to rest his weary shanks; An aw, to while away mi time, O'th' neighbourin hillock did recline, An bade "gooid day."

Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true, If in your heart yo nivver rue Th' time 'at's past? Does envy nivver fill yor breast When passin fowk wi' riches blest? An do yo nivver think it wrang At yo should have to trudge along, Soa poor to th' last?"

"Young man," he sed, "aw envy nooan; But ther are times aw pity some, Wi' all mi heart; To see what trubbl'd lives they spend, What cares upon their hands depend; Then aw in thowtfulness declare 'At 'little cattle little care' Is th' better part.

Gold is a burden hard to carry, An tho' Dame Fortun has been chary O' gifts to me; Yet still aw strive to feel content, An think what is, for th' best is meant; An th' mooast ov all aw strive for here, Is still to keep mi conscience clear, From dark spots free.

An while some tax ther brains to find What they'll be foorced to leeav behind, When th' time shall come; Aw try bi honest word an deed, To get what little here aw need, An live i' hopes at last to say, When breeath gooas flickerin away, 'Aw'm gooin hooam.'"

Aw gave his hand a hearty shake, It seem'd as tho' the words he spake Sank i' mi heart: Aw walk'd away a wiser man, Detarmined aw wod try his plan I' hopes at last 'at aw might be As weel assured ov Heaven as he; That's th' better part.

Th' Lesser Evil.

Young Harry wor a single chap, An wod have lots o' tin, An monny a lass had set her cap, This temptin prize to win. But Harry didn't want a wife, He'd rayther far be free; An soa escape all care an strife 'At wedded couples see. But when at last his uncle deed, An left him all his brass, 'Twor on condition he should wed, Some honest Yorksher lass. Soa all his dreamin day an neet Abaat what sprees he'd have; He had to bury aght o'th' seet, Deep in his uncle's grave. To tak a wife at once, he thowt Wor th' wisest thing to do, Soa he lukt raand until he browt His choice daan between two. One wor a big, fine, strappin lass, Her name wor Sarah Ann, Her height an weight, few could surpass, Shoo'r fit for onny man. An t'other wor a little sprite, Wi' lots o' bonny ways, An little funny antics, like A kitten when it plays. An which to tak he could'nt tell, He rayther liked 'em booath; But if he could ha pleased hissen, To wed one he'd be looath. A wife he thowt an evil thing, An sewer to prove a pest; Soa after sometime studyin He thowt th' least wod be th' best. They sooin wor wed, an then he faand He'd quite enuff to do, For A'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand, An tongue enuff for two. An if he went aght neet or day, His wife shoo went as weel; He gat noa chonce to goa astray;-- Shoo kept him true as steel. His face grew white, his heead grew bald, His clooas hung on his rig, He grew like one 'at's getten stall'd, Ov this world's whirligig. One day, he muttered to hissen, "If aw've pickt th' lesser evil, Th' poor chap 'at tackles Sarah Ann, Will wish he'd wed the D---l."

Take Heart!

Roughest roads, we often find, Lead us on to th' nicest places; Kindest hearts oft hide behind Some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars whose colors breetest are, Oft delight awr wond'ring seet; But ther's others, humbler far, Smell a thaasand times as sweet.

Burds o' monny color'd feather, Please us as they skim along, But ther charms all put together, Connot equal th' skylark's song.

Bonny women--angels seemin,-- Set awr hearts an brains o' fire; But its net ther beauties; beamin, Its ther gooidness we admire.

Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle, Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray; He best proves his might an' mettle, Who remains to win the day.

Monkey's an vain magpies chatter, But it doesn't prove 'em wise; An it's net wi noise an clatter, Men o' sense expect to rise.

'Tis'nt them 'at promise freely, Are mooast ready to fulfill; An 'tis'nt them 'at trudge on dreely 'At are last at top o'th' hill.

Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment, Gaudy flaars awr e'en beguile; Women may be loved for raiment, Show may blind us for a while;

But we sooin grow discontented, An for solid worth we sigh, An we leearn to prize the jewel, Tho' it's hidden from the eye.

Him 'at thinks to gether diamonds As he walks along his rooad, Nivver need be tired wi' huggin, For he'll have a little looad.

Owt 'at's worth a body's winnin Mun be toiled for long an hard; An tho' th' struggle may be pinnin, Perseverance wins reward.

Earnest thowt, an constant strivin, Ever wi' one aim i'th' seet; Tho' we may be late arrivin, Yet at last we'st come in reet.

He who WILL succeed, he MUST, When he's bid false hopes farewell, If he firmly fix his trust In his God, and in hissel.

They all do it.

They're all buildin nests for thersen, One bi one they goa fleetin away; A suitable mate comes,--an then, I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay. Well,--it's folly for th' old en's to freeat, Tho' it's hard to see loved ones depart,-- An we sigh,--let a tear drop,--an yet, We bless 'em, an give 'em a start.

They've battles to feight 'at we've fowt, They've trubbles an trials to face; I'th' futer they luk an see nowt 'At can hamper ther coorse i' life's race. Th' sun's shinin soa breetly, they think Sorrow's claads have noa shadow for them, They walk on uncertainty's brink, An they see in each teardrop a gem.

Happy dreams 'at they had long ago, Too sweet to believe---could be true, Are realized nah, for _they know_ Th' world's pleasures wor made for them two. We _know_ 'at it's all a mistak, An we pity, an yet we can pray, 'At when th' end comes they'll nivver luk back Wi' regret to that sweet weddin day.

God bless 'em! may happiness dwell, I' ther hearts, tho' they beat in a cot; An if in a palace,--well,--well,-- Shall ther young love be ever forgot. Nay,--nay,--tho' old Time runs his plough, O'er fair brows an leaves monny a grove; May they cloiser cling, th' longer they grow, Till two lives blend i' one sacred love.

Bless th' bride! wi' her bonny breet e'en! Bless th' husband, who does weel his part; Aye! an bless those old fowk where they've been, The joy an the pride ov ther heart. May health an prosperity sit At ther table soa long as they live! An accept th' gooid wishes aw've writ, For they're all 'at aw'm able to give.

To Let.

Aw live in a snug little cot, An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aght o' debt, Cloise by, in a big garden plot, Stands a mansion, 'at long wor "to let."

Twelve month sin or somewhear abaat, A fine lukkin chap donned i' black, Coom an luk'd at it inside an aght An decided this mansion to tak.

Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove An masons, an joiners, an sweeps, An a blacksmith to fit up a cove, An bricks, stooans an mortar i' heaps.

Ther wor painters, an glazzeners too, To mend up each bit ov a braik, An a lot 'at had nowt else to do, But to help some o'th t'others to laik.

Ther wor fires i' ivvery range, They nivver let th' harston get cooiled, Throo th' cellar to th' thack they'd a change, An ivverything all in a mooild.

Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall, Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell, But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all; He tells me to do it mysel.