Yorkshire Lyrics Part 43

Soa aw think aw shall let thowts o' beauty slide by, For a workin chap must be a crank, 'At sees mooar in a dimple or twinklin eye, Nor in a snug sum in a bank.

Some may say ther's noa love in a weddin like this, An its nowt but her bra.s.s 'at aw want, Well, maybe they can live on a smile or a kiss, If they can,--why, they may,--but aw cant.

Mary's Bonnet.

Have yo seen awr Mary's bonnet?

It's a stunner,--noa mistak!

Ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it, An a feather daan her back.

Yollo ribbons an fine laces, An a c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo, An raand her bonny face is A string o' pooasies blue.

When shoo went to church last Sundy, Th' parson could'nt find his text; An fat old Mistress Grundy Sed, "A'a, Mary! pray what next!"

Th' lads wink'd at one another,-- Th' la.s.ses snikered i' ther glee, An th' whooal o'th' congregation Had her bonnet i' ther ee.

Sooin th' singers started singin, But they braik daan one bi one, For th' hymn wor on "The flowers Of fifty summers gone."

But when they saw awr Mary, They made a mullock on it, For they thowt 'at all them flaars Had been put on Mary's bonnet.

Then th' parson sed mooast kindly, "Ther wor noa offence intended; But flaar shows wor aght o' place, I'th' church whear saints attended.

An if his errin sister wished To find her way to glory; Shoo should'nt carry on her heead, A whooal consarvatory."

Nah, Mary is'nt short o' pluck,-- Shoo jumpt up in a minnit, Shoo lukt as if shoo'd swollo th' church, An ivverybody in it.

"Parson," shoo sed, "yor heead is bare,-- Nowt in it an nowt on it; Suppooas yo put some flaars thear, Like theas 'at's in my bonnet."

Prime October.

Ther's some fowk like watter, An others like beer; It doesn't mich matter, If ther heead is kept clear.

But to guzzle an swill, As if aitin an drinkin Wor all a chap lives for, Is wrang to my thinkin.

Ivvery gooid thing i' life Should be takken i' reason; Even takkin a wife Should be done i'th' reight season.

Tho' i' that case to give Advice is noa use, Aw should ne'er win fowk's thanks But might get some abuse.

But if ther's a fault 'At we owt to luk ovver, It's when a chap's tempted Wi' "prime old October."

An to cheer up his spirits As nowt else on earth could, He keeps testin its merits, An gets mooar nor he should.

Ov coorse he'll be blamed If he gets ovver th' mark; An noa daat he'll feel shamed When he's throo wi' his lark.

An he'll promise "it nivver Shall happen agean,"

Tho' he's feelin all th' time Just as dry as a bean.

But who can resist, When it sparkles an shines; An his nooas gets a whif At's mooar fragrant nor wines?

Aw'd forgie a teetotaller At sich times, if he fell;-- For aw know ha it is, 'Coss aw've been thear mysel.

Old Dave to th' New Parson.

"Soa, yo're th' new parson, are yo?

Well, awm fain to see yo've come; Yo'll feel a trifle strange at furst, But mak yorsen at hooam.

Aw hooap yo'll think nor war o' me, If aw tell what's in mi noddle, Remember, if we dooant agree, It's but an old man's twaddle.

But aw might happen drop a hint, 'At may start yo to thinkin; Awd help yo if aw saw mi way, An do it too, like winkin.

Awm net mich up o' parsons,-- Ther's some daycent ens aw know; They're smart enuff at praichin, But at practice they're too slow.

For dooin gooid nooan can deny Ther chonces are mooast ample; If they'd give us fewer precepts, An rayther moor example.

We need a friend to help waik sheep, Oe'r life's rough ruts an boulders;-- Ther's a big responsibility Rests on a parson's shoulders.

But oft ther labor's all in vain, Noa matter ha persistent; Becoss ther taichin an ther lives Are hardly quite consistent.

Ther's nowt can shake ther faith in G.o.d, When bad is growing worse; An nowt abate ther trust, unless It chonce to touch ther purse.

They say, "Who giveth to the poor, Lends to the Lord," but yet, They all seem varry anxious, Net to get the Lord in debt.

But wi my fooilish nooations Mayhap yo'll net agree,-- Its like enuff 'at awm mistaen,-- But it seems that way to me.

If yo hear a clivver sarmon, Yor attention it command's, If yo know at th' praicher's heart's as white As what he keeps his hands.

Ther's too mich love ov worldly ways, An too mich affectation; They work i'th' vinyard a few days, Then hint abaat vacation.

He has to have a holiday Because he's worked soa hard;-- Well, aw allus think 'at labor Is desarvin ov reward.

What matters, tho' his little flock A shepherd's care is wantin: Old Nick may have his run o'th' fold Wol he's off galavantin.

Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one, Yo seem a gradely sooart; But if yo' th' Gospel armour don, Yo'll find it isn't spooart.

Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright, For a mess ov worldly pottage: But spend less time i'th' squire's hall An moor i'th' poor man's cottage.

Point aght the way an walk in it, They'll follow, one bi one, An when yo've gained yor journey's end, Yo'll hear them words, "Well done."

A Christian soldier has to be, Endurin, bold an brave; Strong in his faith he'll sewerly win, As sewer as my name's Dave."

Tom Grit.

He'd a breet ruddy face an a laffin e'e, An his shoolders wer brooad as brooad need be; For each one he met he'd a sally o' wit, For a jovjal soul wor this same Tom Grit.

He climb'd up to his waggon's heigh seeat wi' pride, For he'd bowt a new horse 'at he'd nivver tried; But he had noa fear, for he knew he could drive As weel, if net better, nor th' best man alive.

Soa he sed, as he gethered his reins in his hand, An prepared to start off on a journey he'd planned; But some 'at stood by shook ther heeads an lukt grave, For they'd daats ha that mettlesum horse might behave.

It set off wi' a jerk when Tom touched it wi' th' whip, But his arms they wor strong, an like iron his grip, An he sooin browt it daan to a nice steady gait, But it tax'd all his skill to mak it run straight.

Two miles o' gooid rooad to the next taan led on, An ov things like to scare it he knew ther wor none; Soa he slackened his reins just to give it a spin,-- Then he faand 'at he couldn't for th' world hold it in.

It had th' bit in its teeth an its een fairly blazed, An it plunged an reared madly,--an then as if crazed It dashed along th' rooad like a fury let lawse, Woll Tom tried his utmost to steady his course.