Chapter 7

But they say ther is One 'at can see, An has promised to guide us safe throo; Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, He'll find a chap summat to do.

That's a Fact.

"A'a Mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! Aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure;-- Aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, Aw wor nivver i' this way afoor. Aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; Aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm, An' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too-- Tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form. Aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght-- But promise tha'll keep it reight squat; For aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght, But aw can't keep it in--tha knows that. We'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet, An Jimmy wor thear,--tha's seen Jim? An he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, To ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; Aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, For he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; An he just did th' same thing tother wick,-- It made fowk tak nooatice, dos't see. An when aw wor gooin towards hooam, Aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'Twor pitch dark, an aw thowt if they coom, Aw should varry near sink into th' graund. Aw knew it wor Jim bi his traid, An aw tried to get aght ov his gate; But a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, Aw wor nivver i' sich en a state. Then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, An aw said, "nah, leeav loise or aw'll screeam! Can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, Consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" But he stuck to mi arm like a leach, An he whispered a word i' mi ear; It tuk booath mi breeath an mi speech, For aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. Then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, An he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: Aw says, "Jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" As sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath. But he wod'nt be quiet, for he sed 'At he'd loved me soa true an soa long-- Aw'd ha geen a ear off o' my ye'd To get loise--but tha knows he's soa strong.-- Then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, An he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;-- Aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, Aw wor fesen'd whativver to say; 'Coss tha knows aw've a likin for Jim; But yo can't allus say what yo meean; For aw tremb'ld i' ivvery limb, Wol he kussed me agean an agean. But at last aw began to give way, For, raylee, he made sich a fuss, An aw kussed him an all--for they say, Ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. Then he left me at th' end o' awr street, An aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; But if aw should see him to neet, What wod ta advise me to do? But dooant spaik a word--tha's noa need, For aw've made up mi mind ha to act, For he's th' grandest lad ivver aw seed, An aw like him th' best too--that's a fact!"

Babby Burds.

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, Across a meadow newly shorn; Th' sun wor shinin breet and clear, An fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, An all wor still. When, as my steps wor idly rovin, Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin O'th' edge o'th' hill.

It wor a little skylark's nest, An two young babby burds, undrest, Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, Callin for mammy to provide Ther mornin's meal; An high aboon ther little hooam, Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom; Ringin soa sweetly o' mi ear, Like breathins throo a purer sphere, He sang soa weel.

Ther mammy, a few yards away, Wor hoppin on a bit o' hay; Too feeard to coom, too bold to flee; An watchin me wi' troubled e'e, Shoo seem'd to say: "Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! Ther daddy does the best he can To cheer yo with his sweetest song; An thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, Soa let 'em stay."

"Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm-- Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! For aw've a little nest misel, An two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'At's precious too; An they've a mammy watching thear, 'At howds them little ens as dear, An dearer still, if that can be, Nor what thease youngens are to thee, Soa come,--nah do!

"A'a well!--tha'rt shy, tha hops away,-- Tha doesn't trust a word aw say; Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an plunder, An aw confess aw dunnot wonder-- But tha's noa need; Aw'll leave yo to yorsels,--gooid bye! For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; He loves yo better nor his song-- He does indeed."

Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear Caught up the saand o' warblin clear; Thinks aw, they're happy once agean; Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so meean To rob that nest; For they're contented wi' ther lot, Nor envied me mi little cot; An in this world, as we goa throo, It is'nt mich gooid we can do, An do awr best.

Then let us do as little wrong To onny as we pass along, An never seek a joy to gain 'At's purchased wi' another's pain, It isn't reet. Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, To mend awr Johnny's little cart: (He allus finds me wark enuff To piecen up his brocken stuff, For ivvery neet.)

An Sally--a'a! if yo could see her! When aw sit daan to get mi teah, Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, An maks me sing it "Hush a bee," I'th' rocking chear; Then begs some sugar for it too; What it can't ait shoo tries to do; An turnin up her cunnin e'e, Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, It gets its share."

Sometimes aw'm rayther cross, aw fear! Then starts a little tremblin tear, 'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew Swimmin within a wild flaar blue, Falls fro ther e'e; But as the sun in April shaars Revives the little droopin flaars, A kind word brings ther sweet smile back: Aw raylee think mi brain ud crack If they'd ta dee.

Then if aw love my bairns soa weel, May net a skylark's bosom feel As mich consarn for th' little things 'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings Soa weel affoards? If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind How mich is gained by bein kind; Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, An fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell Even o'th' burds.

Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Have yo seen mi bonny Mary, Shoo lives at Skircoit Green; An old fowk say a fairer lass Nor her wor nivver seen. An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar, 'At's bloomin thear to-day; An one an all are scared to deeath, Lest shoo should flee away.

Shoo's health an strength an beauty too, Shoo's grace an style as weel: An what's moor precious far nor all, Her heart is true as steel. Shoo's full ov tenderness an love, For onny in distress; Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove, Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.

Her fayther's growin old an gray, Her mother's wellny done; But in ther child they find a stay, As life's sands quickly run. Her smilin face like sunshine comes, To chase away ther cares, An peeace an comfort allus dwells, In that dear hooam ov theirs.

Each Sundy morn shoo's off to schooil, To taich her Bible class; An meets a smilin welcome, From ivvery lad an lass; An when they sing some old psalm tune, Her voice rings sweet an clear, It saands as if an angel's tongue, Had joined in worship thear.

Aw sometimes see her safely hooam, An oft aw've tried to tell, That precious saycret ov a hooap 'At in mi heart does dwell. But when aw've seen the childlike trust, 'At glances throo her e'e, To spaik ov love aw nivver durst;-- Shoo's far too gooid for me.

But to grow worthy ov her love, Is what aw meean to try; An time may my affection prove,-- An win her bye-an-bye. Then aw shall be the happiest chap 'At Yorksher's ivver seen, An some fine day aw'll bear away, The Queen ov Skircoit Green.

Th' Little Black Hand.

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, An it may be poetical fire: An suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then? Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away-- Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; An tho' aw turn neet into day, If aw'm suitin an odd en, ne'er heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; But then ther's abundance o' care, An them 'at's contented wi' strife May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik,-- Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; An if butter be aght o' mi raik, Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' brass 'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it! When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass, Aw con thoil 'em whativver they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, An aw see fowk hawf-clam'd, an i' rags, Wi' noa bed to lig daan on at neet But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;

Then aw think, if rich fowk nobbut knew What ther brothers i' poverty feel, They'd a trifle moor charity show, An help 'em sometimes to a meal.

But we're all far too fond of ussen, To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; An we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'At's noa bed nor noa supper at neet.

But ther's monny a honest heart throbs, Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' nobs, 'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's workin away, An sweepin that crossin i'th' street: He's been thear ivver sin it coom day, An yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, An ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom! What care they tho' he smothered a sigh, Or wiped off a tear as they coom?

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart! He's gien th' poor child summat at last: Ha his e'en seem to twinkle an start, As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

An thear in his little black hand He sees a gold sovereign shine! He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, An he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, An tell him to cut aght o'th seet; But he clutches it fast,--an nah see Ha he's threedin his way along th' street.

Till he comes to that varry same man, An he touches him gently o'th' back, An he tells him as weel as he can, 'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, With his little nak'd feet, as he stands, An his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An he begs him to tell him his name: But th' child glances timidly raand-- Poor craytur! he connot forshame To lift up his e'en off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik, An he tells him they call him poor Joa; 'At his mother is sickly an' waik; An his father went deead long ago;

An he's th' only one able to work Aght o' four; an he does what he can, Throo early at morn till it's dark: An he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An he tells him his mother's last word, As he starts for his labor for th' day, Is to put all his trust in the Lord, An He'll net send him empty away.--

See that man! nah he's wipin his e'en, An he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; An th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen What'll keep his poor mother throo th' cowd.

An monny a time too, after then, Did that gentleman tak up his stand At that crossing an watch for hissen The work ov that little black hand.

An when years had gooan by, he expressed 'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, An all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an the wealthy may prate, An booast o' ther riches and land, Some o'th' laadest 'ul sink second-rate To that lad with his little black hand.

My Native Twang.

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, An ow't to goa to th' schooil To leearn to talk like other fowk, An net be sich a fooil; But aw've a noashun, do yo see, Although it may be wrang, The sweetest music is to me, Mi own, mi native twang.

An when away throo all mi friends, I' other taans aw rooam, Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends For what aw've left at hooam; But as aw hurry throo ther streets Noa matter tho aw'm thrang, Ha welcome if mi ear but greets Mi own, mi native twang.

Why some despise it, aw can't tell, It's plain to understand; An sure aw am it saands as weel, Tho' happen net soa grand. Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, They call that vulgar slang; But if aw tell 'em they're engaged, That's net mi native twang.

Mi father, tho' he may be poor, Aw'm net ashamed o' him; Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, An tho' her e'en are dim; Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk Its crucken'd streets amang; For thear it is aw hear fowk tawk Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin fowk Say boldly what they meean; For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, May be ther hearts are cleean. An them 'at country fowk despise, Aw say, "Why, let 'em hang;" They'll nivver rob mi sympathies Throo thee, mi native twang.

Aw like to see grand ladies, When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en Throo th' carriage winders shine; Mi mother wor a woman, An tho' it may be wrang, Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivvery one; Gooid luck to them 'ats brass; Gooid luck an better times to come To them 'ats poor--alas! An may health, wealth, an sweet content For ivver dwell amang True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk, 'At tawk mi native twang.

Sing On.

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; Aw connot sing; A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con Fresh troubles spring. Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, Aw'd leeav mi cares an be a burd to-day.

Mi heart wor once as full o' joy as thine, But nah it's sad; Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, Sich faith aw had;-- But he who promised aw should be his wife Has robb'd me o' mi ivvery joy i' life.

Sing on! tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; Yet, when aw hear Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an strong, Aw feel a tear Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.

This little darlin, cuddled to mi breast, It little knows, When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'At all mi woes Are smothered thear, an mi poor heart ud braik But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.

Sing on; an if tha e'er should chonce to see That faithless swain, Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, Strike up thy strain, An if his heart yet answers to thy trill Fly back to me, an we will love him still.

But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel All hope is o'er, An he that aw believed an loved soa weel Be loved noa more; For that hard heart, bird music cannot move, Is far too cold a dwellin-place for love.

Shoo's thi Sister. (Written on seeing a wealthy Townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; On her feet ther's monny a blister: See ha painfully shoo drags Her tired limbs to some quiet corner: Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; Used to scoffs, an sneers, an shunnin-- Shoo expects it, 'coss shoo's poor; Schooil'd for years her grief to smother, Still shoo's human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, A kid glove o' awther hand, Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-- Shoo's thi sister, understand: Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Luk ha sharp her elbow's growin, An ha pale her little face; An her hair neglected, showin Her's has been a sorry case; O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, When tha shov'd her into th' street.

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater Nor thisen wi' all thi brass; Him, awr blessed Mediator,-- Wod He scorn that little lass? Noa, He called 'em, an He blessed 'em, An His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways! an if tha bears net Some regret for what tha's done, If tha con pass on, an cares net For that sufferin little one; Then ha'ivver poor shoo be, Yet shoo's rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, To awr duties here below! For we're forced to leeav behind us All awr pomp, an all awr show; Why then should we slight another? Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.

Another Babby.

Another!--well, my bonny lad, Aw wodn't send thee back; Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch To see thi pratty face; Ther's net another child i'th' bunch Moor welcome to a place.

Aw'st ha to fit a peark for thee, I' some nook o' mi cage; But if another comes, raylee! Aw'st want a bigger wage.

But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha to want-- We'll try to pool thee throo, For Him who has mi laddie sent, He'll send his baggin too.

He hears the little sparrows chirp, An answers th' raven's call; He'll nivver see one want for owt, 'At's worth aboon 'em all.

But if one on us mun goa short, (Altho' it's hard to pine,) Thy little belly shall be fill'd Whativver comes o' mine.

A chap con nobbut do his best, An that aw'll do for thee, Leavin to providence all th' rest, An we'st get help'd, tha'll see.

An if thi lot's as bright an fair As aw could wish it, lad, Tha'll come in for a better share Nor ivver blessed thi dad.

Aw think aw'st net ha lived for nowt, If, when deeath comes, aw find Aw leeav some virtuous lasses An some honest lads behind.

An tho' noa coat ov arms may grace For me, a sculptor'd stooan, Aw hooap to leeav a noble race, Wi' arms o' flesh an booan.

Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, Wi' health, we'll persevere, An try to find a brighter track-- We'll conquer, nivver fear!

An may God shield thee wi' his wing, Along life's stormy way, An keep thi heart as free throo sin, As what it is to-day.

To a Roadside Flower.

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined To tak thee wi' me: But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, Tha'd ne'er forgie me; For i' mi jacket button-hoil tha'd quickly dee, An life is short enuff, booath for mi-sen an thee.

Here, if aw leeav thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, Whear scoors may pass thee; Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish May stop an bless thee: Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty! Sent here to bless: Smile on--tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn't rob another of a joy Sich as tha's gien me; For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy Until aw'd seen thee. An may each passin, careworn, lowly brother, Feel cheered like me, an leeav thee for another.

An Old Man's Christmas Morning.

Its a long time sin thee an' me have met befoor, owd lad,-- Soa pull up thi cheer, an sit daan, for ther's noabdy moor welcome nor thee: Thi toppin's grown whiter nor once,--yet mi heart feels glad, To see ther's a rooas o' thi cheek, an a bit ov a leet i' thi e'e.

Thi limbs seem to totter an shake, like a crazy owd fence, 'At th' wind maks to tremel an creak; but tha still fills thi place; An it shows 'at tha'rt bless'd wi' a bit o' gradely gooid sense, 'At i' spite o' thi years an thi cares, tha still wears a smile o' thi face.

Come fill up thi pipe--for aw knaw tha'rt reight fond ov a rick,-- An tha'll find a drop o' hooam-brew'd i' that pint up o'th' hob, aw dar say; An nah, wol tha'rt tooastin thi shins, just scale th' foir, an aw'll side thi owd stick, Then aw'll tell thi some things 'at's happen'd sin tha went away.

An first of all tha mun knaw 'at aw havn't been spar'd, For trials an troubles have come, an mi heart has felt well nigh to braik; An mi wife, 'at tha knaws wor mi pride, an mi fortuns has shared, Shoo bent under her griefs, an shoo's flown far, far away aght o' ther raik.

My life's like an owd gate 'at's nobbut one hinge for support, An sometimes aw wish--aw'm soa lonely-- at tother 'ud drop off wi' rust; But it hasn't to be, for it seems Life maks me his spooart, An Deeath cannot even spare time, to turn sich an owd man into dust.

Last neet as aw sat an watched th' yule log awd put on to th' fire, As it crackled, an sparkled, an flared up wi sich gusto an spirit, An when it wor touched it shone breeter, an flared up still higher, Till at last aw'd to shift th' cheer further back for aw couldn't bide near it;

Th' dull saand o'th' church bells coom to tell me one moor Christmas mornin, Had come, for its welcome--but ha could aw welcome it when all alooan? For th' snow wor fallin soa thickly, an th' cold wind wor mooanin, An them 'at aw lov'd wor asleep i' that cold church yard, under a stooan.

Soa aw went to bed an aw slept, an then began dreamin, 'At mi wife stood by mi side, an smiled, an mi heart left off its beatin, An aw put aght mi hand, an awoke, an mornin wor gleamin; An its made me feel sorrowful, an aw connot give ovver freatin.

For aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha' been, If awd gooan to that place, where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow, For aw know shoo's thear, or that dream aw sud nivver ha seen, But aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

It's forty long summers an winters, sin tha bade "gooid bye," An as fine a young fella tha wor, as ivver aw met i' mi life; When tha went to some far away land, thi fortune to try, An aw stopt at hooam to toil on, becoss it wor th' wish o' my wife.

An shoo wor a bonny young wench, an better nor bonny,-- Aw seem nah as if aw can see her, wi' th' first little bairn on her knee; An we called it Ann, for aw liked that name best ov onny, An fowk said it wor th' pictur o'th' mother, wi' just a strinklin o' me.

An th' next wor a lad, an th' next wor a lad, then a lass came,-- That made us caant six,--an six happier fowk nivver sat to a meal, An they grew like hop plants--full o' life--but waikly i'th' frame, An at last one drooped, an Deeath coom an marked her with his seal.

A year or two moor an another seemed longin to goa, An all we could do wor to smooth his deeath bed, 'at he might sleep sweeter-- Then th' third seemed to sicken an pine, an we couldn't say "noa," For he said his sister had called, an he wor most anxious to meet her--

An how we watched th' youngest, noa mortal can tell but misen, For we prized it moor, becoss it wor th' only one left us to cherish; At last her call came, an shoo luked sich a luk at us then, Which aw ne'er shall forget, tho' mi mem'ry ov all other things perish.

A few years moor, when awr griefs wor beginnin to lighten, Mi friends began askin my wife, if shoo felt hersen hearty an strong? An aw nivver saw at her face wor beginnin to whiten, Till shoo grew like a shadow, an aw could'nt even guess wrong.

Then aw stood beside th' grave when th' saxton wor shovin in th' gravel, An he sed, "this last maks five, an aw think ther's just room for another," An aw went an left him, lonely an heartsick to travel, Till th' time comes when aw may lig daan beside them four bairns an ther mother.

An aw think what a glorious Christmas day 'twod ha been If aw'd gooan to that place where ther's noa moor cares, nor partin, nor sorrow; An aw knaw they're thear, or that dream aw should nivver ha seen, But aw'll try to be patient, an maybe shoo'll come fotch me to-morrow.

Settin Off.

It isn't 'at aw want to rooam An leeav thi bi thisen: For aw'm content enuff at hooam, Aw'm net like other men. But then ther's thee an childer three, To care for an protect, It's reight 'at yo should luk to me, An wrang should aw neglect.

Aw'm growin older ivvery day, My race is ommost run, Time's growin varry precious, lass, An lots remains undone. If aw wor called away, maybe, Tha'd find some other man, But tha cannot find a father, For them lads,--do th' best tha can.

Another husband might'nt prove As kind as aw have been; An wedded life's a weary thing, When love's shut aght o'th' scene. Aw know aw've faults, aw'll own a lot,-- But then, tha must agree, Aw've allus kept a tender spot Within mi heart for thee.