Yorkshire Lyrics Part 14

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 pa.s.s As if they'd ne'er been met, An nivver drain the sparklin gla.s.s;-- 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, G.o.d 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, la.s.s, 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, la.s.s, 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 bra.s.s 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 la.s.s, 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 G.o.d.

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, G.o.d 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 G.o.d.

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.