Chapter 6

This hall lets for fifty a year, Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay; When th' day come mi rent's allus thear, An that's a gooid thing in its way.

At th' last all th' repairers had done, An th' hall wor as cleean as a pin, Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan, For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.

Then th' furnitur started to come, Waggon looads on it, all spankin new, Rich crimson an gold covered some, Wol some shone i' scarlet an blue.

Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor, An picturs enuff for a show? They fill'd ivvery corner aw'm sure, Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.

One day when a cab drove to th' gate, Th' new tenant stept aght, an his wife, (An tawk abaat fashion an state! Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.)

Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in, An aw could'nt help sayin, "bi th' mass;" As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in, "A'a, it's grand to ha plenty o' brass."

Ther wor butchers, an bakers, an snobs, An grocers, an milkmen, an snips, All seekin for orders an jobs, An sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.

Aw sed to th' milk-chap 'tother day, "Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike? Each wick aw'm expected to pay," "Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."

Things went on like this, day bi day, For somewhear cloise on for a year; Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin that way, Altho' aw wor livin soa near.

But one neet when aw'd finished mi wark, An wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire, A chap rushes in aght 'o'th' dark Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.

Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?" Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?" "Them at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan, "They've bolted an diddled us cleean."

Aw tell'd him aw'd ne'er heeard a word, He cursed as he put on his hat, An he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd, An paid nubdy owt, an that's what."

He left, an aw crept off to bed, Next day aw'd a visit throo Ike, But aw shut up his maath when aw sed, "Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."

Ther's papers i'th' winders, "to let," An aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be; They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet, Tho they ne'er do a hawpoth for me.

But aw let 'em do just as they pleease, Aw'm content tho' mi station is low, An awm thankful sich hard times as thease If aw manage to pay what aw owe.

This precept, friends, nivver forget, For a wiser one has not been sed, Be detarmined to rise aght o' debt Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed.

Lost Love.

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny lass, Her e'en as black as sloas; Her hair a flyin thunner claad, Her cheeks a blowin rooas. Her smile coom like a sunny gleam Her cherry lips to curl; Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream 'At flowed throo banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, But nah mi love is crost; An aw mun wander on alooan, An mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw could'nt ax her to be mine, Wi' poverty at th' door: Aw nivver thowt breet e'en could shine Wi' love for one so poor; */ 92 */ But nah ther's summat i' mi breast, Tells me aw miss'd mi way: An lost that lass I loved the best Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, An oft i'th' dark o'th' neet, Aw've knelt mi daan i'th' loin to find Prints ov her tiny feet. An under th' window, like a thief, Aw've crept to hear her spaik; An then aw've hurried hooam agean For fear mi heart wod braik.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c.

Another bolder nor misen, Has robb'd me o' mi dear; An nah aw ne'er may share her joy, An ne'er may dry her tear. But tho' aw'm heartsick, lone, an sad, An tho' hope's star is set; To know shoo's lov'd as aw'd ha lov'd Wod mak me happy yet.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, &c.

Drink.

When yo see a chap covered wi' rags, An hardly a shoe to his fooit, Gooin sleawshin along ovver th' flags, Wi' a pipe in his maath black as sooit; An he tells yo he's aght ov a job, An he feels wellny likely to sink,-- An he hasn't a coin in his fob, Yo may guess what he's seekin--it's Drink.

If a woman yo meet, poorly dressed, Untidy, an spoortin black e'en; Wi' a babby hawf clammed at her breast, Neglected an shame-to-be-seen; If yo ax, an shoo'll answer yo true, What's th' cause of her trouble? Aw think, Yo'll find her misfortuns are due To that warst o' all enemies,--Drink.

Ax th' wretches convicted o' crime, What caused 'em to plunge into sin, An they'll say ommost ivvery time, It's been th' love o' rum, whisky or gin. Even th' gallus, if it could but tell Ov its victims dropt ovver life's brink; It wod add a sad lot moor to swell The list ov those lost throo strong Drink.

Yet daily we thowtlessly pass, The hell-traps 'at stand like a curse; Bedizened wi' glitter an glass, To mak paupers, an likely do worse. Some say 'at th' millenium's near, But they're reckonin wrang aw should think, When they fancy the King will appear, In a world soa besotted wi' Drink.

Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.)

Th' mooin shone breet wi' silver leet, An th' wind wor softly sighin; Th' burds did sleep, an th' snails did creep, An th' buzzards wor a flying; Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, An th' buttercups wor weary, When Jenny went to meet her John, Her Rifleman, her dearie.

Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad As iver held a rifle, An if ther wor owt in him bad, 'Twor nobbut just a trifle. He wore a suit o' sooity grey, To show 'at he wor willin To feight for th' Queen and country When perfect in his drillin.

His heead wor raand, his back wor straight, His legs wor long an steady, His fist wor fully two pund weight, His heart wor true an ready; His upper lip wor graced at th' top Wi' mustache strong an bristlin, It railly wor a spicy crop; Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi' thowts o' war, He long'd for battles' clatter, He grieved to think noa foeman dar To cross that sup o' watter; He owned one spot,--an nobbut one, Within his heart wor tender, An as his darlin had it fun, He'd be her bold defender.

At neet he donn'd his uniform, War trials to endure, An helped his comrades brave, to storm A heap ov horse manure! They said it wor a citidel, Fill'd wi' some hostile power, They boldly made a breach, and well They triumph'd in an hour.

They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (That spoils one's britches sadly,) But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, An scented 'em as badly; Ther wor noa slain to hug away, Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, They lived to feight another day, An spend ther neets i' rantin.

Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loin Where all wor dark an shaded, Part grass, part stooans, part sludge an slime But quickly on he waded; An nah an then he cast his e'e An luk'd behund his shoulder. He worn't timid, noa net he! He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."

But once he jumped, an sed "Oh dear!" Becoss a beetle past him; But still he wor unknown to fear, He'd tell yo if yo asked him. He could'nt help for whispering once, "This loin's a varry long un, A chap wod have but little chonce Wi thieves, if here amang 'em."

An all at once he heeard a voice Cry out, "Stand and deliver! Your money or your life, mak choice, Before your brains I shiver;" He luk'd all raand, but failed to see A sign of livin craytur, Then tremlin dropt upon his knee, Fear stamp'd on ivvery faytur.

"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, Mi belts, mi ammunition, Aw've nowt but th' clooas 'at's o' mi back Oh pity mi condition; Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' brass, Aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin; Aw'm nobbut goin to meet a lass, At Tate's berry garden."

"Aw wish shoo wor, aw dooant care where, Its her fault aw've to suffer;" Just then a whisper in his ear Said, "Johnny, thar't a duffer," He luk'd, an' thear cloise to him stuck Wor Jenny, burst wi' lafter; "A'a, John," shoo says, "Aw've tried thi pluck, Aw'st think o' this at after."

"An when tha tells what things tha'll do, An booasts o' manly courage, Aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, Go hooam an get thi porrige." "Why Jenny wor it thee," he sed, "Aw fancied aw could spy thi, Aw nobbut reckoned to be flaid, Aw did it but to try thi."

"Just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis Aw hear thi heart a beatin, An tak this claat to wipe thi phiz, Gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin. Thar't brave noa daat, an tha can crow Like booastin cock-a-doodle, But nooan sich men for me, aw vow, When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'"

Plenty o' Brass.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! It's grand to be able to spend A trifle sometimes on a glass For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend. To be able to bury yor neive Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd, An, 'baght pinchin, be able to save A wee bit for th' time when yo're owd.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! To be able to set daan yor fooit Withaat ivver thinkin--bi'th' mass! 'At yo're wearin' soa much off yor booit. To be able to walk along th' street, An stand at shop windows to stare, An net ha to beat a retreat If yo scent a "bum bailey" i'th' air.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! To be able to goa hooam at neet, An sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd lass, An want nawther foir nor leet. To tak th' childer a paper o' spice, Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice For yor friends, if they happen to call.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! Then th' parsons'll know where yo live; If yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, An call where fowk's summat to give. Yo may have a trifle o' sense, An yo may be booath upright an trew, But that's nowt, if yo can't stand th' expense Ov a whole or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' brass! An to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard, This world seems as smooth as a glass, An ther's flaars o' booath sides o'th' rooad; But him 'at's as poor as a maase, Or, happen, a little i' debt, He mun point his nooas up to th' big haase, An be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' chink! But dooan't let it harden yor heart: Yo 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think An try to do gooid wi' a part! An then, as yo're totterin' daan, An th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, Yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.

The New Year's Resolve.

Says Dick, "ther's a nooation sprung up i' mi yed, For th' furst time i'th' whole coorse o' mi life, An aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, If aw knew who to get for a wife.

Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, For aw've nawther to booast on misel; What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin lass, An ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.

To be single is all weel enuff nah an then, But it's awk'ard when th' weshin day comes; For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.

An aw'm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; An th' floor's in a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, An mi back warks as if it 'ud split.

Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin best; Soa one day aw bethowt me to try, But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly.

Aw did mak a dumplin, but a'a! dear a me! Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; Aw ne'er fan th' mistak till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, An saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink.

But a new-year's just startin, an soa aw declare Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, An thease mullucks, they're drivin me mad.

Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, Talegraft me at once, an aw'll see her misel, Afoor shoo can alter her mind."

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime, To put sich stooaries into ryhme, But yet, contentedly aw chime Mi simple ditty: An if it's all a waste o' time, The moor's the pity.

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet, Wi' reekin heead and weary feet, A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; He made mi start; But pluckin up, aw did him greet Wi' beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be, An th' latest fashion aw could see, But yet they hung soa dawderly, Like suits i' shops; Bi'th' heart! yo mud ha putten three Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rayther late For one 'at's dress'd i' sich a state, Across this Slack to mak ther gate: Is ther some pairty? Or does ta allus dress that rate-- Black duds o'th' wairty?"

He twisted raand as if to see What sooart o' covy aw could be, An grinned wi' sich a maath at me, It threw me sick! "Lor saves!" aw cried, "an is it thee 'At's call'd owd Nick?"

But when aw luk'd up into th' place, Whear yo'd expect to find a face; A awful craytur met mi gaze, It took mi puff: "Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass, Aw've seen enuff!"

Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear, He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear, An soa aw stop't a bit to hear What things he'd ax; But as he spake his teeth rang clear, Like knick-a-nacks.

"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' thee Net knowin sich a chap as me; For oft when tha's been on a spree, Aw've been thear too; But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee, Tha's just edged throo.

Mi name is Deeath--tha needn't start, An put thi hand upon thi heart, For tha may see 'at aw've noa dart Wi' which to strike; Let's sit an tawk afoor we part, O'th edge o'th dyke."

"Nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad, For Bobby Burns tells me tha had A scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, Gad! Tha worn't dress'd I' fine black clooath; tha wore a plad Across thi breast!"

"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat To find me wanderin abaght; But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat A job to do; Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat, Mi arrows too."

"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me, 'At fowk noa moor will ha to dee?" "Noa, hark a minnit an tha'll see When th' truth aw tell! Fowk do withaat mi darts an me, Thev kill thersel.

They do it too at sich a rate Wol mi owd system's aght o' date; What we call folly, they call fate; An all ther pleasur Is ha to bring ther life's estate To th' shortest measur.

They waste ther time, an waste ther gains, O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains, Throo morn to neet they keep ther brains, For ivver swimmin, An if a bit o' sense remains, It's fun i'th wimmen.

Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft, Nor yet misen wi' scythe or shaft, E'er made as monny deead or daft, As Gin an Rum, An if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft At me, bi gum!

But if they thus goa on to swill, They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill, For give a druffen chap his fill, An sooin off pops he; An teetotal fowk moor surely still, Will dee wi' th' dropsy.

It's a queer thing 'at sich a nation Can't use a bit o' moderation; But one lot rush to ther damnation Throo love o'th' bottle: Wol others think to win salvation Wi' bein teetotal."

Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead, "Tak my advice, young chap," he sed, "Let liquors be, sup ale asteead, An tha'll be better, An dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard Like a deead letter."

"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say, Yo come to fotch us chaps away! But this seems strange, soa tell me pray, Ha wor't yo coom? Wor it to tell us keep away, Yo hav'nt room?"

"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar But tha'll find spirits worse bi far Sarved aght i' monny a public bar, 'At's thowt quite lawful; Nor what tha'll find i'th' places parsons call soa awful."

"Gooid bye!" he sed, an off he shot, Leavin behind him sich a lot O' smook, as blue as it wor hot! It set me stewin! Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot Ov us own brewin.

If when yo've read this stooary throo, Yo daat if it's exactly true, Yo'll nobbut do as others do, Yo may depend on't. Blow me! aw ommost daat it too, So thear's an end on't.

What Wor it?

What wor it made me love thee, lass? Aw connot tell; Aw know it worn't for thi brass;-- Tho' poor misel Aw'd moor nor thee, aw think, if owt, An what _aw_ had wor next to nowt.

Aw didn't love thi 'coss thi face Wor fair to see: For tha wor th' plainest lass i'th' place, An as for me, They called me "nooasy," "long-legs," "walkin prop," An sed aw freetened customers throo th' shop.

Aw used to read i' Fairy books Ov e'en soa breet, Ov gowden hair, angelic looks, An smiles soa sweet; Aw used to fancy when aw'd older grown, Aw'd claim some lovely Fairy for mi own.

An weel aw recollect that neet,-- 'Twor th' furst o'th' year, Aw tuk thi hooam, soaked throo wi' sleet, An aw'd a fear Lest th' owd man's clog should give itsen a treat, An be too friendly wi' mi britches seeat.

What fun they made, when we went in;-- They cried, "Yo're catched!" An then thi mother sed i'th' midst o'th' din "They're fairly matched, An beauty's in th' beholder's e'e they say, An they've booath been gooid childer, onyway."

An then aw saw a little tear, Unbidden flow, That settled it!--for then an thear Aw seemed to know, 'At we wor meant to share each others lot, An Fancy's Fairies all could goa to pot.

Full thirty years have rolled away, Sin that rough time; What won mi love aw connot say, But this is mine, To know, mi greatest prize on earth is thee, But pray, whativver made thee fancy me?

Billy Bumble's Bargain.

Young Billy Bumble bowt a pig, Soa aw've heeard th' neighbors say; An monny a mile he had to trig One sweltin' summer day; But Billy didn't care a fig, He sed he'd mak it pay; He _knew_ it wor a bargain, An he cared net who said nay.

He browt it hooam to Ploo Croft loin, But what wor his surprise To find all th' neighbors standing aght, We oppen maaths an eyes; "By gow!" sed Billy, to hissen, "This pig _must_ be a prize!" An th' wimmen cried, "Gooid gracious fowk But isn't it a size?"

Then th' chaps sed, "Billy, where's ta been? Whativver has ta browt? That surely isn't crayture, lad, Aw heeard 'em say tha'd bowt? It luks moor like a donkey, Does ta think 'at it con rawt?" But Billy crack'd his carter's whip. An answered 'em wi' nowt.

An reight enuff it wor a pig, If all they say is true, Its length wor five foot eight or nine, Its height wor four foot two; An when it coom to th' pig hoil door, He couldn't get it throo, Unless it went daan ov its knees, An that it wodn't do.

Then Billy's mother coom to help, An hit it wi' a mop; But thear it wor, an thear it seem'd Detarmined it 'ud stop; But all at once it gave a grunt, An oppen'd sich a shop; An finding aght 'at it wor lick'd, It laup'd cleean ovver th' top.

His mother then shoo shook her heead, An pool'd a woeful face; "William," shoo sed, "tha should'nt bring Sich things as theas to th' place. Aw hooap tha art'nt gooin to sink Thi mother i' disgrace; But if tha buys sich things as thease Aw'm feared it will be th' case!"

"Nah, mother, nivver freat," sed Bill, "Its one aw'm gooin to feed, Its rayther long i'th' legs, aw know, But that's becoss o'th' breed; If its a trifle long i'th' grooin, Why hang it! nivver heed! Aw know its net a beauty, _But its cheap, it is, indeed!"_

"Well time 'ul try," his mother sed,-- An time at last did try; For nivver sich a hungry beeast Had been fed in a sty. "What's th' weight o'th' long legged pig, Billy!" Wor th' neighbors' daily cry; "Aw connot tell yo yet," sed Bill, "Aw'll weigh it bye an bye."

An hard poor Billy persevered, But all to noa avail, It swallow'd all th' mait it could get, An wod ha swallow'd th' pail; But Billy tuk gooid care to stand O'th' tother side o'th' rail; But fat it didn't gain as mich As what 'ud greeas its tail.

Pack after pack o' mail he bowt, Until he'd bowt fourteen; But net a bit o' difference I'th' pig wor to be seen: Its legs an snowt wor just as long As ivver they had been; Poor Billy caanted rib bi rib An heaved a sigh between.

One day he mix'd a double feed, An put it into th' troff; "Tha greedy lukkin beeast," he sed, "Aw'll awther stawl thee off, Or else aw'll brust thi hide--that is Unless 'at its to toff!" An then he left it wol he went His mucky clooas to doff.

It worn't long befoor he coom To see hah matters stood; He luk'd at th' troff, an thear it wor, Five simple bits o' wood, As cleean scraped aght as if it had Ne'er held a bit o' food; "Tha slotch!" sed Bill, "aw do believe Tha'd ait me if tha could."

Next day he browt a butcher, For his patience had been tried, An wi a varry deeal to do, Its legs wi' rooap they tied; An then his shinin knife he drew An stuck it in its side-- It mud ha been a crockadile, Bi th' thickness ov its hide.

But blooid began to flow, an then Its long legg'd race wor run; They scalded, scraped, an hung it up, An when it all wor done, Fowk coom to guess what weight it wor, An monny a bit o' fun They had, for Billy's mother sed, "It ought to weigh a ton."

Billy wor walkin up an daan, Dooin nowt but fume an fidge! He luk'd at th' pig--then daan he set, I'th nook o'th' window ledge, He saw th' back booan wor stickin aght, Like th' thin end ov a wedge; It luk'd like an owd blanket Hung ovver th' winterhedge.

His mother rooar'd an th' wimmen sigh'd, But th' chaps did nowt but laff; Poor Billy he could hardly bide, To sit an hear ther chaff-- Then up he jumped, an off he run, But whear fowk nivver knew; An what wor th' war'st, when mornin coom, Th' deead pig had mizzled too.

Th' chaps wander'd th' country far an near, Until they stall'd thersen; But nawther Billy nor his pig Coom hooam agean sin then; But oft fowk say, i'th' deead o'th' neet, Near Shibden's ruined mill, The gooast o' Billy an his pig May be seen runnin still.

MORAL.

Yo fowk 'at's tempted to goa buy Be careful what yo do; Dooant be persuaded 'coss "it's _cheap_," For if yo do yo'll rue; Dooant think its lowerin to yor sen To ax a friend's advice, Else like poor Billy's pig, 't may be Bowt dear at onny price.

Aght o' Wark.

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, An aw can't get a day's wark to do! Aw've trailed abaat th' streets, wol aw'm sick An aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost throo.

Aw've a wife an three childer at hooam, An aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, For they think it's high time aw should come, An bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case When th' cubbord is empty an bare; When want's stamped o' ivvery face, An yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street, Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; An aw thowt 'at it hardly luk'd reet, For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel, Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, Had nivver known th' want of a meal, Or a shelter to keep 'em throo th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an to spare, Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; But ther maisters forget they should care For a chap 'at's three bairns an a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivvery neet, An ther's carriages standin bi'th' scooar, An all th' windows are blazin wi' leet, But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; An unless we can get it o'th' strap, We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hooam'ards aw'll point mi owd clogs To them three little lambs an ther dam;-- Aw wish they wor horses or dogs, For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.