Yorkshire Lyrics Part 7

Th' Short-Timer.

Some poets sing o' gipsy queens, An some o' ladies fine; Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes,-- A humbler muse is mine.

Jewels, an' gold, an silken frills, Are things too heigh for me; But wol mi harp wi vigour thrills, Aw'll strike a chord for thee.

Poor la.s.sie wan, Do th' best tha can, Although thi fate be hard.

A time ther'll be When sich as thee Shall have yor full reward.

At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed, An off tha goes to wark; An gropes thi way to mill or shed, Six months o'th' year i'th' dark.

Tha gets but little for thi pains, But that's noa fault o' thine; Thi maister reckons up _his_ gains, An ligs i bed till nine.

Poor la.s.sie wan, &c.

He's little childer ov his own 'At's quite as old as thee; They ride i' cushioned carriages 'At's beautiful to see; They'd fear to spoil ther little hand, To touch thy greasy brat: It's wark like thine at makes em grand-- They nivver think o' that.

Poor la.s.sie wan, &c.

I' summer time they romp an' play Where flowers grow wild and sweet; Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay, They thrive throo morn to neet.

But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has, An oft aw've known thee sick; But tha mun work, poor little la.s.s, Foa hauf-a-craan a wick.

Poor la.s.sie wan, &c.

Aw envy net fowks' better lot-- Aw shouldn't like to swap.

Aw'm quite contented wi mi cot; Aw'm but a workin chap.

But if aw had a lot o' bra.s.s Aw'd think o' them at's poor; Aw'd have yo' childer workin less, An mak yor wages moor.

Poor la.s.sie wan, &c.

"There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign, Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain."

Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear, I' that sweet home ov love; An' those at scorn thi sufferins here May envy thee above.

Poor la.s.sie wan, &c.

Sol an' Doll.

Awm a young Yorksher lad as jolly an gay, As a lark on a sunshiny mornin, An Dolly's as fair as the flaars i' May, An trubbles we meean to be scornin.

If we live wol to-morn aw shall make her mi wife, An we'll donce to a rollickin measure, For we booath are agreed to begin wedded life, As we mean to goa throo it, wi pleasure.

Then we'll donce an be gay, An we'll laff care away, An we'll nivver sit broodin o'er sorrow, An mi Dolly an me, Ax yo all to a spree; Come an donce at awr weddin to-morrow.

Awst be bashful awm sewer, aw wor ne'er wed befoor, An aw feel rayther funny abaat it; But Dolly aw guess can drag me aght o'th' mess, An if ther's owt short we'll do baat it.

Mi mother says "Sol, if tha'll leave it to Doll, Tha'll find shoo can taich thee a wrinkle, Shoo's expectin some fun befoor it's all done Aw can tell, for aw saw her e'en twinkle."

Then we'll donce &c.

We've a haase to step in, all as smart as a pin, An we've beddin an furnitur plenty; We've a pig an a caah, an aw connot tell ha Monny paands, but aw think abaat twenty.

We've noa family yet, but ther will be aw'll bet, For true comfort aw think ther's nowt licks it An if they dooant come, aw'll just let it alooan, An aw'll leave it for Dolly to fix it.

Then we'll donce &c.

Their Fred.

"He's a nowt!

If ther's owt At a child shouldn't do, He mun try, Or know why, Befoor th' day's getten throo.

An his dad, Ov his lad Taks noa nooatice at all, Aw declare It's net fair For Job's patience he'd stall.

Awm his mam,-- That aw am, But awm ommost worn aght, A gooid lick Wi a stick, He just cares nowt abaght.

Thear he goes, Wi a nooas Like a chaneller's shop!

Aw may call, Or may bawl, But th' young imp willn't stop.

Thear's a cat, He spies that, Nah he's having a race!-- That's his way Ivvery day If a cat's abaght th' place.

But if aw Wor near by, Awd just fotch him a seawse!

Come thee here!

Does ta hear?

Come thi ways into th' haase!

Who's that flat?

What's he at?

If he touches awr Fred, If aw live Aw'll goa rive Ivvery hair off his head!

What's th' lad done?

It's his fun!

Tried to kill yor old cat?

Well suppooas At he does!

Bless mi life! What bi that?

He's mi own, Flesh an' booan, An aw'll net have him lickt; If he's wild, He's a child, Pray what can yo expect!

Did um doy!

Little joy!

Let's ha nooan o' them skrikes Nowty man!

Why he can Kill a cat if he likes.

Hush a bee, hush a bye, Little Freddy munnot cry."

Love an' Labor.

Th' swallows are buildin ther nests, Jenny, Th' springtime has come with its flowers; Th' fields in ther greenest are drest, Jenny, An th' songsters mak music ith' bowers.

Daisies an b.u.t.tercups smile, Jenny, Laughingly th' brook flows along;-- An awm havin a smook set oth' stile, Jenny, But this bacca's uncommonly strong.

Aw wonder if thy heart like mine, Jenny, Finds its love-burden hard to be borne; Do thi een wi' breet tears ov joy shine, Jenny, As they glistened an shone yestermorn?

Ther's noa treasure wi' thee can compare, Jenny, Aw'd net change thi for wealth or estate;-- But aw'll goa nah some braikfast to share, Jenny, For aw can't live baght summat to ait.

Like a nightingale if aw could sing, Jenny, Aw'd pearch near thy winder at neet, An mi choicest love ditties aw'd bring, Jenny, An lull thi to rest soft an sweet.

Or if th' wand ov a fairy wor mine, Jenny, Aw'd grant thi whate'er tha could wish;-- But theas porridge are salty as brine, Jenny, An they'll mak me as dry as a fish.

A garland ov lillies aw'd twine, Jenny, An place on thy curls golden bright, But aw know 'at they quickly wod pine, Jenny, I' despair at thy brow's purer white.