Yorkshire Lyrics Part 47

Has sombdy been findin fault, Wi' owt tha's sed or done?

Or are ta bothered wi' thi loom, Wi' th' warp tha's just begun?

Whativver 'tis, lad, let me know,-- Aw'll help thi if aw can; Sometimes a woman's ready wit Is useful to a man.

Tha allus let me share thi joys,-- Let's share when grief prevails; Tha knows tha sed aw should, John, I'th' front o'th' alter rails.

We've just been wed a year, lad, Come Sundy next but three; But if tha sulks an willn't spaik, Aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me.

Aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, John, To be a wife to thee; Come tell me what's to do, John, Wol aw caar o' thi knee."

"Aw've bra.s.s enuff to pay mi way,-- Aw'm hearty as needs be;-- Ther's noabdy been findin fault, An aw'm nooan stawl'd o' thee.

But aw'm soa mad aw connot bide,-- For commin hooam to-neet, Mi pipe slipt throo between mi teeth, An smashed to bits i'th' street.

Aw cant think what aw could be doin, To let the blam'd thing drop!

An a'a! it wor a beauty, An colored reight to th' top."

If.

Dear Jenny, if fortun should favour mi lot, Mi own bonny wife tha shall be; For trubbles an worries we'll care net a jot, For we'll rout 'em wi' frolic an glee.

We'll have a snug cot wi' a garden at th' back, An aw'll fix peearks i'th' cellar for hens; Then a fresh egg for braikfast tha nivver need lack, When thi fancy to sich a thing tends.

Some cheers an a table, an two-o'-three pans, Some pots an a kettle for tea; A bed an a creddle an smart kist o' drawers, An a rockin-cheer, la.s.s,--that's for thee.

Some books, an some picters to hing up o'th' wall, To mak th' place luk n.o.bby an neat; An a rug up o'th' harstun to keep thi tooas warm, An some slippers to put on thi feet.

An when Sundy comes,--off to th' chapel or church, An when we get back we'll prepare, Some sooart ov a meal,--tho its hooamly an rough, If its whooalsum we nivver need care.

If we're blest wi' a bairn, we mun ne'er be put aght, If it shows us its tempers an tiffs; Soa Jenny, have patience, for th' change i' thi state, Depends varry mich on theas "Ifs."

A True Tale.

Ther's a Squire lives at th' Hall 'at's lukt up to, As if he wor ommost a G.o.d.

He's hansum, he's rich, an he's clivver, An fowk's praad if he gives 'em a nod.

He keeps carriages, horses an dogs, For spooartin, or fancy, or labor, He's a pew set apart in a church, An he's reckoned a varry gooid naybor.

Ther's a woman bedrabbled an weet, Crouched daan in a doorhoil to rest; Her een strangely breet,--her face like a sheet, An her long hair hings ovver her breast.

Want's shrivell'd her body to nowt, An vice has set th' stamp on her face; An her heart's grown soa callous an hard, 'At it connot be touched wi' disgrace.

Ther's a child bundled up i' some rags, 'At's whinin its poor life away; Neglected an starvin on th' flags, On this wild, cold an dree winter's day.

An its father is dinin at th' Hall, An its mother is deein wi' th' cold, Withaat even a morsel o' breead, Yet its father is rollin i' gold.

Ther's a grey heeaded man an his wife, Who are bow'd daan wi' grief,--net wi' years:-- Ivver mournin a dowter they've lost, Ivver silently dryin ther tears.

Shoo wor th' hooap an pride o' ther life, Till a Squire put strange thowts in her heead; Then shoo fled an they ne'er saw her mooar, Soa they mourn her as if shoo wor deead.

Ther's One up aboon sees it all; He values noa t.i.tles nor bra.s.s, He cares noa mooar for a rich Squire, Nor He does for a poor country la.s.s, His messengers now hover near, Till that mother an child yield ther breath, An th' Squire has noa longer a fear, For his secret is lockt up in death.

Peter's Prayer.

His face wor varry thin an pale, His een wor strangely breet; His old rags flapt i'th' wintry gale, An shooless wor his feet.

His teeth they chattered in his heead, His hands had lost ther use, He humbly begg'd a bite o' breead, But n.o.bbut gate abuse.

A curse wor tremblin on his tongue, But with a mad despair, He curbed it wi' an effort strong, An changed it for a prayer.

"Oh, G.o.d!" he cried, "spare,--spare aw pray!

Have mercy an forgive; Befooar too lat, show me some way My wife an bairns can live!"

"Aw read i'th' papers ivvery day, Ov hundreds,--thaasands spent For shot an sh.e.l.l, an things to swell This nation's armament.

Into fowk's hearts, oh, G.o.d! instil A love ov peace, an then, Maybe we'st have some better times, An men can help thersen.

Aw n.o.bbut want a chonce to live, One cannot wish for less; Wars fill this world wi' misery,-- Peace gives us happiness.

If monarchs dooant get quite as mich, Ther joys need not decrease;-- Pray think o'th' poor as weel as th' rich;-- We've but one soul apiece."

Mak th' Best Ont.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--tho' th' job be a bad en, G.o.d bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat!

This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en, If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.

Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet, Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess; Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it, 'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--ne'er heed if yor naybor Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave; Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor, An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.

Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit, 'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front; It's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it,--is it?

Soa keep up yor p.e.c.k.e.r an gie sorrow a shunt.

Mak th' best on't,--mak th' best on't,--if Fortune should favor, An a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap, 'Twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor, If yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap.

Depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly, As just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot; For freeatin at best is a waste an a folly, An it nivver will help to mend matters a jot.

On Strike.

He wandered slipshod through the street, His clothes had many a rent; His shoes seemed dropping from his feet, His eyes were downward bent.

His face was sallow, pale and thin, His beard neglected grew, Upon his once close shaven chin, Like bristles sticking through.

I'd known him in much better state, As "old hard-working Mike,"

I asked, would he the cause relate?