Yorkshire Lyrics Part 48

Said he, "Awm aght on th' strike.

Yo're capt, noa daat, to see me thus, Aw'm shamed to meet a friend; It's varry hard on th' mooast on us, We wish 't wor at an end.

Aw cannot spend mi time i'th' haase, An see mi childer pine; They havn't what'll feed a maase, But that's noa fault o' mine.

Th' wife's varry nearly brokken daan,-- Shoo addles all we get, Wol aw goa skulkin all throo th' taan, I' sorrow, rags an debt.

But then yo know it has to be, Th' committee tells us that; They owt to know,--but as for me, Aw find it's hard,--that's flat.

They say 'at th' miaisters suffer mooar Nor we can ivver guess;-- But th' sufferin they may endure, Maks mine noa morsel less.

But then th' committee says it's reight; Soa aw mun rest content, An we mun still, goa on wi' th' feight, What comes o' jock or rent.

Aw dooant like to desart mi mates, But one thing aw dooant like; When th' table shows but empty plates It's hard to be on th' strike.

Gooid day,--for cake awst ha to fend, Them childer's maaths to fill; Th' committee say th' strike sooin will end; Aw hooap to G.o.d it will."

Be Happy.

Some fowk ivverlastinly grummel, At th' world an at th' fowk ther is in it; If across owt 'at's pleasant they stummel, They try to pick faults in a minnit.

We all have a strinklin o' care, An they're lucky 'at ne'er meet a trubble, But aw think its unkind, an unfair, To mak ivvery misfortun seem double.

Some grummel if th' sun doesn't shine,-- If it does they find cause for complainin; Discontented when th' weather wor fine, They start findin fault if its rainin.

Aw hate sich dissatisfied men, An fowk 'at's detarmined to do soa, Aw'd mak 'em goa live bi thersen, Aght o'th' world,--like a Robinson Crusoe.

To mak th' pleasures surraandin us less, Ivvery reight-minded man must think sinful; When ther's soa mich to cheer us an bless, Ov happiness let's have a skinful.

Aw truly mooast envy that man, Who's gladly devotin his leisure, To mak th' world as breet as he can, An add to its stock ov pure pleasure.

It's true ther's hard wark to be done, An mooast on us drop in to share it; But if sprinkled wi' innocent fun, Why, we're far better able to bear it.

May we live long surraanded wi' friends, To enjoy what is healthful an pure; An at last when this pilgrimage ends, We shall nivver regret it aw'm sure.

Its True.

Ther's things i'plenty aw despise;-- False pride an wild ambition; Tho' ivvery man should strive to rise, An better his condition.

Aw hate a meean an grovlin soul, I' breast ov peer or ploughman, But what aw hate the mooast ov all, Is th' chap 'at strikes a woman.

For let ther faults be what they may, He proves 'at he's a low man, Who lifts his hand bi neet or day, An strikes a helpless woman.

Ther taunts may oft be hard to bide,-- Ther tempers may be fiery, But pa.s.sions even dwell inside The convent an the priory.

An all should think where'er we dwell, Greek, Saxon, Gaul or Roman; We're net sich perfect things ussel, As to despise a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

It's true old Eve first made a slip, An fill'd this world wi' bother; But Adam had to bite his lip,-- He couldn't get another.

An tho' at th' present day they swarm, That chap proves his own foeman, Who doesn't tak his strong reight arm, An twine it raand a woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

A chap may booast he's number one, An lord it o'er creation; May spaat an praich, but when he's done, He'll find his proper station.

He may be fast when at his best, But age maks him a slow man, An as he sinks, he's fain to rest, On some kind-hearted woman.

For let ther faults, &c.

Aw wodn't gie a pinch o' salt, For that cold-hearted duffer, Who glories o'er a woman's fault, An helps to mak her suffer.

Ther's net a c.o.c.k e'er flapt a wing, 'At had th' same reight to crow, man; As th' chap who wi' a weddin ring, Has made a happy woman.

Then let ther faults be what they will, Ther net for me to show, man; But if yo seek for comfort, still, Yo'll find it in a woman.

Natty Nancy.

"Mooar fowk get wed nor what do weel,"

A've heeard mi mother say; But mooast young lads an la.s.ses too, Think just th' contrary way.

An la.s.ses mooar nor lads it seems, To wed seem nivver flaid; For nowt they seem to dreead as mich As deein an old maid.

But oft for single life they sigh, An net withaat a cause, When wi' ther tongue they've teed a knot, Ther teeth's too waik to lawse.

Days arn't allus weddin days, They leearn that to ther sorrow, When panics come an th' bra.s.s gets done, An they've to try to borrow.

When th' chap at th' strap shop's lukkin glum, An hardly seems to know yo; An gooas on sarvin other fowk As if he nivver saw yo.

An when yo're fain to pile up th' foir, Wi' bits o' cowks an cinders;-- When poverty says, "here' aw've come,"

Love hooks it aght o'th' winders.

Friends yo once had are far too thrang To ax yo to yer drinkin; They happen dunnot meean owt wrang,-- But one cannot help for thinkin.

An when yo're lukkin seedy like, Wi' patched an tattered clooas; Yo'll find when yer coit elbows gape, Sich friends oft shut ther doors.

Ther are poor fowk 'at's happier far, Nor rich ens,--ther's noa daat on't, For bra.s.s cannot mak happiness, But sewerly it's a pairt on't.

Aw'll tell yo ov a tale aw heeard,-- It's one 'at tuk mi fancy,-- Abaat a young chap an his wife, They called her Natty Nancy.

They called her Natty, yo mun know Becoss shoo wor soa clivver, At darnin, cookin, weshin clooas Or onny job whativver.

Well, they began as monny do 'At arn't blest wi' riches; He hugg'd all th' fortun he possessed I'th' pocket ov his britches.

It worn't mich, it wodn't raich Aboon a two-o'-three shillin; But they wor full ov hooap an health, An they wor strong an willin.

An fowk wor capt to see ha sooin Ther little cot grew cooasy; Shoo'd allus summat cheerful like, If't n.o.bbut wor a pooasy.

Soa time slipt on, an all went weel When d.i.c.k sed, "Natty, la.s.s, A-latly aw've begun to feel Aw'st like a bigger haase.

For when aw tuk this cot for thee, We'd nubdy but ussen; But sin that lad wor born ther's three, An ther'll sooin be four, an then?"

"Why, d.i.c.k," shoo sed, "just suit thisen, Here's raam enuff for me; But if tha'rt anxious for a change, Aw'm willin to agree."

Soa sooin they tuk a bigger haase, They tew'd throo morn to neet, To mak it smart, an varry sooin 'Twor th' nicest haase i'th' street.

An when a little la.s.s wor born They thowt ther pleasur double; But d.i.c.k, alas! had nah to taste A little bit o' trubble.

For times wer growin varry hard, An wark kept gettin slacker; He'd furst to goa withaat his ale, An then to stop his bacca.

But even that did net suffice To keep want at a distance, An they'd noa whear i'th' world to turn, To luk for some a.s.sistance.

An monny a time he left his meal Untouched, tho' ommost pinin; An trail'd abaat, i' hooaps to find Some breeter fortun shinin.

For long he sowt, but sowt in vain, Although his heart wor willin To turn or twist a hundred ways, To get an honest shillin.

One day his wife coom back throo th' shop, Her heart seem'd ommost brustin; Shoo sob'd, "Oh, d.i.c.k,--what mun we do, Th' shop keeper's stall'd o' trustin.

We've nowt to ait, lad, left i'th' haase,-- Aw know th' fault isn't thine, But th' childer's bellies mun be fill'd Tho' thee an me's to pine."

d.i.c.k seized his hat an aght o'th' door He flew like somdy mad, Detarmined 'at he'd get some bra.s.s, If bra.s.s wor to be had.

He furst tried them he thowt his friends, An tell'd his touchin stooary; They b.u.t.ton'd up ther pockets As they sed, "We're varry sooary."

They tell'd him to apply to th' taan, Or sell his goods an chattels; d.i.c.k felt at last 'at he'd to feight One o' life's hardest battles.