Yorkshire Lyrics Part 26

Some sang a song, some cracked a joak, An' all seem'd full o' larkin; An' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, An' ivery e'e'd a spark in.

Long Joa 'at comes thro th' Jumples cluff, Wor gettin rayther mazy; An' Warkus Ned had supped enuff To turn they're Betty crazy;-- An Bob at lives at th' Bogeggs farm, Wi' Nan throo th' b.u.t.tress Bottom, Wor treating her to summat wanm, (It's just his way,--"odd drot em!")

An' Jack o'th' Slade wor theear as weel, An' Joa o' Abe's throo Waerley; An' Lijah off o'th' Lavver Hill, Wor pa.s.sing th' ale raand rarely.-- Throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, To hear or tell a stoory; But th' gem o' all aw heard last neet Wor one bi Dooad o'th' gloory.

He bet his booits 'at it wor true, An' all seem'd to believe him; Tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue-- But 't wodn't ha done to grieve him His uncle lived i' Pudsey taan, An' practised local praichin; An' if he 're lucky, he wor baan To start a schooil for taichin.

But he wor takken varry ill; He felt his time wor comin: (They say he brought it on hissel Wi' studdyin his summin.) He call'd his wife an' neighbors in To hear his deein sarmon, An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin Ther lot ud be a warm en.

Then turin raand unto his wife, Said--"Mal, tha knows, owd craytur, If awd been bless'd wi' longer life, Aw might ha' left things straighter.

Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence-- Aw lent it him last lovefeast."

Says Mal--"He has'nt lost his sense-- Thank G.o.d for that at least!"

"An Ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, We owe him one paand ten.".-- "Just hark!" says Mally, "there he goas!

He's ramellin agean!

Dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk!

Yo see, poor thing, he's ravin!

It cuts me up to hear sich talk-- He spent his life i' savin!

"An Mally la.s.s," he said agean, "Tak heed o' my direction: Th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean My share o'th' last collection.-- Tha'll see to that, an have what's fair When my poor life is past."-- Says Mally, "listen, aw declare, He's sensible to th' last."

He shut his een an' sank to rest-- Deeath seldom claimed a better: They put him by,--but what wor th' best, He sent 'em back a letter, To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; An' ha he gate to enter; An' gave 'em rules to act upon If ever they should ventur.

Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand: Says he, "What do you want, sir?

If to goa in--yo understand Unknown to me yo can't sir.-- Pray what's your name? where are yo throo?

Just make your business clear."

Says he, "They call me Parson Drew, Aw've come throo Pudsey here."

"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say?

Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; Aw've kept thease doors too long a day, Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir."

Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, For th' sake o' all ther's in it: If yo've a map o' England by, Aw'll show yo in a minit."

Soa Peter gate a time-table-- They gloored o'er th' map together: Drew did all at he wor able, But could'nt find a stiver.

At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall, An thear stands Braforth mission: It's just between them two--that's all: Your map's an old edition.

But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, An' if yo've niver known it, Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan, Tho mony be 'at scorn it."

He oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "It's time Some body coom--aw'll trust thee.

Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-- Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."

Poor Old Hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! like misen tha's grown An fowk call us old fashioned an odd; But monny's the storm we have met sin that day, When aw bowt thee all shiny an snod.

As aw walked along th' street wi thee peearkt o' mi broo, Fowk's manners wor cappin to see; An aw thowt it wor me they bade 'ha do yo do,'

But aw know nah they nodded at thee.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! aw mun cast thee aside, For awr friendship has lasted too long; Tho' tha still art mi comfort, an once wor mi pride, Tha'rt despised i' this world's giddy throng.

Dooant think me ungrateful, or call me unkind, If another aw put i thi place; For aw think tha'll admit if tha'll oppen thi mind, Tha can bring me nowt moor but disgrace.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! varry sooin it may be, Aw'st be scorned an cast off like thisen; An be shoved aght o'th gate wi less kindness nor thee An have nubdy to care for me then.

But one thing aw'll contrive as tha's sarved me soa weel, An tha gave thi best days to mi use; Noa war degradation aw'll cause thee to feel, For aw'll screen thi throo scorn an abuse.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! if thart thrown aght o' door, Tha may happen be punced abaat th' street, For like moor things i'th world, if thart shabby an poor, It wor best tha should keep aght o'th seet.

Wine mellows wi age, an old pots fotch big bra.s.s, An fowk rave ov antique this an that, An they worship grey stooans, an old booans, but alas!

Ther's nubdy respects an old hat.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! awm reight fast what to do, To burn thi aw havnt the heart, If aw stow thi away tha'll be moth etten throo, An thart seedy enuff as tha art.

Tha's long been a comfort when worn o' mi heead, Soa dooant freeat, for to pairt we're net gooin, For aw'll mak on thi soils for mi poor feet asteead, An aw'll wear thi once moor i' mi shooin.

Poor old hat! poor old hat! ne'er repine at thi lot, If thart useful what moor can ta be?

Better wear cleean away nor be idle an rot, An remember thart useful to me.

Though its hard to give up what wor once dearly prized, Tha but does what all earthly things must, For though we live honored, or perish despised,-- We're at last but a handful o' dust.

Done Agean.

Aw've a rare lump o' beef on a dish, We've some bacon 'at's hung up o' th' thack, We've as mich gooid spice-cake as we wish, An wi' currens its varry near black; We've a barrel o' gooid hooam brewed drink, We've a pack o' flaar reared agean th' clock, We've a load o' puttates under th' sink, So we're pretty weel off as to jock.

Aw'm soa fain aw can't tell whear to bide, But the cause aw dar hardly let aat; It suits me moor nor all else beside: Aw've a paand at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw can nah have a spree to misel; Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a gla.s.s; An' aw sha'nt ha' to come home an tell My old la.s.s, ha' aw've shut all mi bra.s.s.

Some fowk say, when a chap's getten wed, He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife; If he does awve oft heeard 'at it's sed, 'At it's sure to breed trouble an strife; If it does aw'm net baan to throw up, Though awd mich rayther get on withaat; But who wodn't risk a blow up, For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.

Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet, For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob, Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see 't, 'At mi frolic wod prove a done job.

But aw'll gladden mi e'en wi' its face, To mak sure at its safe in its nick;-- But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i' th' place!

Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.

Whear its gooan to's a puzzle to me, An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat, For it connot be th' wife, coss you see It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.

But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side, An' aw see 'at shoo's all on a grin; To chait her aw've monny a time tried, But I think it's nah time to give in, A chap may be deep as a well, But a woman's his maister when done; He may chuckle and flatter hissel, But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.

It's a rayther unpleasant affair, Yet it's better it's happened noa daat; Aw'st be fain to come in for a share O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.

What it is to be a Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!

At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner, An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"

An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; For quiet yo niver can catch 'em Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.