Yorkshire Lyrics Part 17

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' b.u.t.tercups 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 n.o.bbut 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 n.o.bbut 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 gra.s.s, 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' bra.s.s, Aw'd gie thi ivvery fardin; Aw'm n.o.bbut goin to meet a la.s.s, 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 n.o.bbut 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 c.o.c.k-a-doodle, But nooan sich men for me, aw vow, When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'"

Plenty o' Bra.s.s.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' bra.s.s!

It's grand to be able to spend A trifle sometimes on a gla.s.s 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' bra.s.s!

To be able to set daan yor fooit Withaat ivver thinkin--bi'th' ma.s.s!

'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 "b.u.m bailey" i'th' air.

A'a! it's grand to ha plenty o' bra.s.s!

To be able to goa hooam at neet, An sit i'th' arm-cheer bi'th' owd la.s.s, 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' bra.s.s!

Then th' parsons'll know where yo live; If yo're poor, it's mooast likely they'll pa.s.s, 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' bra.s.s!

An to them fowk 'at's getten a hooard, This world seems as smooth as a gla.s.s, 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' c.h.i.n.k!

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 gla.s.s, Yo may find 'at yo've purchased a craan Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor bra.s.s.

The New Year's Resolve.

Says d.i.c.k, "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 bra.s.s, For aw've nawther to booast on misel; What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin la.s.s, 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 fl.u.s.tered, 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 la.s.s '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.