Yorkshire Lyrics Part 13

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 pa.s.s 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 appet.i.te 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 n.o.bbut small, but yet, Aw manage to keep aght o' debt.

Mi wife, G.o.d 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 n.o.bbut 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 gla.s.ses 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 n.o.bbut 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 La.s.ses.

Lads an la.s.ses 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.