Songs of the Ridings Part 7

1. Beat. 2. A match for Bonaparte.

3. Conceited tricks. 4. Suspected.

5. As proud as an idol.6. Grumbling.

Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca,(1) Mary Mecca, I'm fain to see thee here, A Devon la.s.s to fill my gla.s.s O' home-brewed Yorkshire beer.

I awlus said that foreigners Sud niver mel on me; But sike a viewly face as thine I'd travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I'm sad to see thee here, Wheer t' wind blaws hask(2) frae Norway I' t' spring-time o' the year.

I'd liever finnd thee sittin', Wi' a bowl o' cruds an' cream, Wheer t' foxglove bells ring through the dells, Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, The way thou snods thy hair, It maks my heart go dancin'

Like winnlestraws(3) i' t' air.

One neet I heard thee singin', As I cam home frae toon; 'Twas sweet as curlews makkin' love Agean a risin' moon.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca, I dream o' thy gray een; I think on all I've wasted, An' what I might hae been.

I'm nowt but muck off t' midden, So all I axe is this: Just blaw the froth from off my yal(4); 'Twill seem most like a kiss.

1. Metcalfe. 2. Keenly 3. Whisps of gra.s.s or straw 4. Ale

The Local Preacher

Ay, I'm a ranter, so at least fowks say; Happen they'd tell t' same tale o' t' postle Paul.

I've ranted fifty yeer, coom first o' May, An' niver changed my gospil through 'em all.

There's nowt like t' Blooid o' t' Lamb an' t' Fire o' h.e.l.l To bring a hardened taistril(1) to his knees; If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell 'Em straight, I've got no cure for their disease.

I willent thole this New Theology That blends up h.e.l.l wi' Heaven, sinners wi' saints For black was black when I turned Methody, An' white was white, i' souls as weel as paints.

That's awlus t' warp an' t' weft o' my discourse, An' awlus will be, lang as I can teach; If fowks won't harken tul it, then, of course, They go to church and hear t' owd parson preach.

His sarmon's like his baccy, sweet an' mild; Fowk's ommost hauf asleep at t' second word.

By t' Ma.s.s! they're wick as lops,(2) ay, man an' child, When I stan' up an' wrastle wi' the Lord.

Nay, I'm not blamin' parson, I'll awant(3); Preachin's his trade, same way as millin's mine.

I' trade you've got to gie fowks what they want, An' that is mostly sawc.u.m(4) meshed reet fine.

Tak squire theer; he don't want no talk o' h.e.l.l, He likes to hark to t' parable o' t' teares ; He reckons church is wheat that's gooid to sell, But chapil's n.o.bbut kexes,(5) thorns, an' brears.

Squire's la.s.ses, they can't do wi' t' Blooid o' t' Lamb They're all for t' blooid o' t' foxes, like our Bob.

The Lord Hissen will have to save or d.a.m.n Church fowks wid out me mellin' on(6) His job.

But gie me chapil la.s.ses gone astray, Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet, An' I'll raise Cain afore I go away, If I don't gie 'em t' glent o' t' Gospil leet.

I'll mak 'em sit on t' penitential stooils, An' roar as loud as t' buzzer down at t' mill; I'll mak 'em own that they've bin despert fooils, Wi' all their pride o' life a bitter pill.

I've mony texts, but all to one point keep, Same as all t' becks flow down to one saut sea: d.a.m.nation an' salvation, goats an' sheep-- That's t' Bible gospil that thou'll get thro' me.

1. Reprobate.2. Lively as fleas.3. Warrrant.

4. Sawdust. 5. Dried stems of weeds 6. Meddling with

THE COURTING GATE

There's dew upon the meadows, An' bats are wheelin' high; The sun has set an hour sin', An' evenin' leet's i' t' sky.

Swalows i' t' thack are sleepin , Neet-hawks are swift on t' wing, An' grey moths gethers honey Amang the purple ling.

O coom an' meet me, Mally, O coom an' greet me, Mally, Meet me, greet me, at the courtin' gate.

The fire-leet casts thy shadow Owerthwart the kitchen wall; It's dancin' up an' doon, la.s.s, My heart does dance an' all.

Three times I've gien oor love-call To bring my bird to t' nest.

When wilt a coom, my throstle, An' shelter on my breast?

O coom an' meet me, Mally, O coom an' greet me, Mally, Meet me, greet me, at the courtin' gate.

I've wrowt all t' day at t' harvist, But ivery hour seemed sweet, Acause I thowt I'd haud thee Clasped i' my airms to-neet.

Black Bess she raked aside me An' leuked at me an' smiled; I telled her I loved Mally, It made her despert wild.

O coom an' meet me, Mally, O coom an' greet me, Mally, Meet me, greet me, at the courtin' gate.

Thy shadow's gone frae t' kitchen, T' hoose-door is oppened wide.

It's she, my viewly Mally, The la.s.s I'll mak my bride.

White lilies in her garden, Fling oot your scent i' t' air, An' mingle breath wi' t' roses I've gethered for her hair.

O let me haud thee, Mally, O let me faud thee, Mally, Haud thee, faud thee, at the courtin' gate.

A SONG OF THE YORKSHIRE DALES

A song I sing o' t' Yorkshire dales, That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea; Frae t' breast o' t' fells, wheer t' cloud-rack sails, Their becks flow merrily.

Their banks are breet wi' moss an' broom, An' sweet is t' scent o' t' thyme; You can hark to t' bees' saft, dreamy soom(1) I' t' foxglove bells an' t' lime.

Chorus O! Swawdill's good for horses, an' Wensladill for cheese, An' Airedill fowk are busy as a bee; But wheersoe'er I wander, My owd heart aye grows fonder O Whardill, wheer I'll lig me down an' dee.

Reet bonny are our dales i' March, When t' curlews tak to t' moors, There's ruddy buds on ivery larch, Primroses don their floors.

But bonnier yet when t' August sun Leets up yon plats o' ling; An' gert white fishes lowp an' scun,(2) Wheer t' weirs ower t' watter hing.