Yorkshire Lyrics Part 41

Willie's Weddin.

A'a, Willie, lad, aw'm fain to hear Tha's won a wife at last; Tha'll have a happier time next year, Nor what tha's had i'th' past.

If owt can lend this life a charm, Or mak existence sweet, It is a lovin woman's arm Curled raand yor neck at neet.

An if shoo's net an angel, Dooant grummel an find fault, For eearth-born angels, lad, tha'll find Are seldom worth ther salt.

They're far too apt to flee away, To spreead ther bonny wings; They'd nivver think o'th' weshin day Nor th' duties wifehood brings.

A wife should be a woman, An if tha's lucky been; Tha'il find a honest Yorksher la.s.s, Is equal to a Queen.

For if her heart is true to thee, An thine to her proves true,-- Tha's won th' best prize 'at's under th' skies, An tha need nivver rue.

Tha'll have to bite thi lip sometimes, When mooar inclined to sware; But recollect, no precious things Bring joy unmixed wi' care.

An when her snarlin turns to smiles, An bitterness to bliss, Tha'll yield fresh homage to her wiles, An mak up wi' a kiss.

Tha'll happen think 'at shoo's a fooil, An thy superior wit Will allus win, an keepin cooil Tha'll triumph in a bit.

Shoo's happen thinkin th' same o' thee An holds thi in Love's tether, Well, nivver heed,--they best agree When two fooils mate together.

Somdy's Chonce.

What's a poor la.s.s like me to do, 'At langs for a hooam ov her own?

Aw'm a hale an bonny wench too, An nubdy can say aw'm heigh-flown.

Aw want nawther riches nor style, Just a gradely plain felly will do; But aw'm waitin a varry long while An ov sweethearts aw've getten but two.

But th' trubble's just this,--let me tell, What aw want an will have if aw can, To share wedded life wi' misel, Is a man 'at's worth callin a man.

But Harry's as stiff as a stoop, An Jack, onny la.s.s wod annoy,-- Harry's n.o.bbut a soft nin-com-p.o.o.p, An Jack's just a hobble-de-hoy.

If caarin at th' hob ov a neet, Wi' a softheeaded twaddlin fooil; Aw should order him aght o' mi seet, Or be cooamin his yure wi' a stooil.

His wage,--what it wor,--couldn't bring Joy enuff to mak up for life's pains, If aw fan misen teed to a thing, At could work, ait an live, withaat brains.

"But ther's love," yo may say,--Hi that's it!

But aw nivver could love a machine; An aw'll net wed a chap 'at's baat wit, Net if he could mak me a queen.

Aw'd like one booath hansum an strong, An honest, truehearted an kind, But aw'm sewer aw could ne'er get along, Wi' a felly 'at had'nt a mind.

Soa Harry will ha to be seckt, For a nin-com-p.o.o.p's nowt i' mi line; As for Jack,--he could nivver expect To win sich a true heart as mine.

Ther's la.s.ses enuff to be had, 'At'll jump at sich chonces wi' joy, They'll tak owt at's i'th' shape ov a lad, Quite content wi' a hobble-de-hoy.

Aw dooant want to spend all mi life, Like a saar, neglected old maid; Aw'd rayther bi th' hawf be a wife, Nor to blossom an wither i'th' shade.

Soa if onny young chap wants a mate, Tho' he may net be hansum nor rich, If he's getten some sense in his pate, Aw'm his chonce.--An he need'nt have mich.

To a True Friend.

Here'sa song to mi brave old friend, A friend who has allus been true; His day's drawin near to its end, When he'll leeav me, as all friends mun do.

His teeth have quite wasted away, He's grown feeble an blind o' one ee, His hair is all sprinkled wi' gray, But he's just as mich thowt on bi me.

When takkin a stroll into th' taan, He's potterin cloise at mi heels; Noa matter whearivver aw'm baan, His constancy nivver once keels.

His feyts an his frolics are o'er, But his love nivver offers to fail; An altho' some may fancy us poor, They could'nt buy th' wag ov his tail.

If th' grub is sometimes rayther rough, An if prospects for better be dark; He nivver turns surly an gruff, Or shows discontent in his bark.

Ther's nubdy can tice him away,-- He owns but one maister,--that's me, He seems to know all 'at aw say, An maks th' best ov his lot, what it be.

Aw've towt him a trick, nah an then, Just when it has suited mi whim; But aw'm foorced to admit to misen, At aw've leearned far mooar lessons throo him.

He may have noa soul to be saved, An when life ends i' this world he's done; But aw wish aw could say aw'd behaved Hawf as weel, when my life's journey's run.

Yo may call it a fooilish consait,-- But to me he's soa faithful an dear, 'At whativver mi futer estate, Aw'st feel looansum if d.i.c.k isn't thear.

But if foorced to part, once for all, An his carcase to worms aw mun give, His mem'ry aw oft shall recall, For he nivver can dee wol aw live.

Warmin Pan.

That old warmin pan wi' it's raand, brazzen face, Has hung thear for monny a day; 'Twor mi Gronny's, an th' haase wodn't luk like th' same place, If we tuk th' owd utensil away.

We ne'er use it nah,--but aw recollect th' time, When at neet it wor filled wi' red cowks; An ivvery bed gate weel warmed, except mine, For they sed it wornt meant for young fowks.

When old Gronny deed, t'wornt mich shoo possest, An mi mother coom in for all th' lot; An shoo raised up a duzzen, misen amang th' rest, An shoo lived wol shoo deed i'th' same cot.

Aw'm th' maister here nah, but aw see plain enuff, Things willn't goa long on th' old plan; Th' young ens turn up ther nooases at old-fashioned stuff, An mak gam o' mi old warmin pan.

But aw luk at it oft as it glimmers i'th' leet, An aw seem to live ovver once mooar; Them days when mi futer wor all seemin breet, An aw thowt nowt but joy wor i' stooar.

Aw'm summat like th' pan, aw've aght lasted mi day, An aw'st sooin get mi nooatice to flit; But aw've this consolation,--aw think aw may say, Aw'st leeav some 'at aw've warmed up a bit.

It may be Soa.

This world's made up ov leet an shade, But some things strange aw mark; One cla.s.s live all on th' sunny side, Wol others dwell i'th' dark.

Wor it intended some should grooap, Battlin with th' world o' care, Wol others full ov joy an hooap Have happiness to spare?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, Opinions should be free;-- Aw'm n.o.bbut spaikin as a friend,-- But it seems that way to me.

Should one cla.s.s wear ther lives away, To mak another great; Wol all their share will hardly pay, For grub enuff to ait?

An is it reight at some should dress I' clooas bedeckt wi' gold, Wol others havn't rags enuff, To keep ther limbs throo th' cold?

It may be soa,--aw'll net contend, &c,

When gazin at th' fine palaces, Whear live the favoured few; Aw cant help wonderin sometimes If th' inmates n.o.bbut knew, At th' buildins next to their's i' size Are workhaases for th' poor, An if they'd net feel some surprise At th' misery raand ther door?