Yorkshire Tales Volume II Part 2

'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek, 'Twor then aw felt mooast sad; For shoo'd been sich a tender plant, An' th' only la.s.s we had.

But nah we're growin moor resign'd, Although her face we miss; For He's blest us wi another, An we've hopes o' rearin this,

Give it 'em Hot.

Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!

Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!

Out wi' them doctrines 'at taich o' fair dealins!

Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!

What does it matter if truth be unpleasant?

Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!

Why should a prince be excused, when a peasant Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?

O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin; An honest man still should be fearless and bold; But at this day fowk seem to be feeared ov offendin, An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's n.o.bbut o' gold.

Give me a crust tho' it's dry, an' a hard 'en, If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee; Aw'd rayther bith hauf work all th' day for a farden, Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.

Let ivery man by his merit be tested, Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back; Let hypocrites all o' ther clooaks be divested, An' what they're ent.i.tled to, that let em tak.

Give it 'em hot! but remember when praichin, All yo 'at profess others failins to tell, 'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi' yor tawkin an' taichin, If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.

Th' Honest Hard Worker.

It's hard what poor fowk mun put u'p wi'!

What insults an' snubs they've to tak!

What bowin an' sc.r.a.pin's expected, If a chap's a black coit on his back.

As if clooas made a chap ony better, Or riches improved a man's heart, As if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter Nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart.

Give me one, hard workin, an' honest, Tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse; If it's muck 'ats been getten bi labor, It does'nt mak th' man ony worse.

Awm sick o' thease simpering dandies, 'At think coss they've getten some bra.s.s, They've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers, An' curl up their nooas as they pa.s.s.

It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin, To be curlin an' partin ther hair; An' seekin one's own fun and pleasure, Niver thinkin ha others mun fare.

It's all varry weel to be spendin Ther time at a hunt or a ball, But if th' workers war huntin an' doncin, Whativer wad come on us all?

Ther's summat beside fun an' frolic To live for, aw think, if we try; Th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker Nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky.

Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful, An' awve oft felt a want on't misen, Yet th' world withaat bra.s.s could keep movin, But it wodn't do long withaat men.

One truth they may put i' ther meersham, An' smoke it--that is if they can; A man may mak hooshuns o' riches, But riches can ne'er mak a man.

Then give me that honest hard worker, 'At labors throo marnin to neet, Tho' his rest may be little an' seldom, Yet th' little he gets he finds sweet.

He may rank wi' his wealthier brother, An' rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some; For a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor Is a pa.s.sport to th' world 'at's to come.

For we know it's a sin to be idle, As man's days i' this world are but few; Then let's all wi' awr lot 'be contented, An' continue to toil an' to tew.

For ther's one thing we all may be sure on, If we each do awr best wol we're here, 'At when, th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on, We shall have varry little to fear.

An' at last, when, we throw daan awr tackle, An' are biddin farewell to life's stage, May we hear a voice whisper at partin, "Come on, lad! Tha's haddled thi wage;"

Niver Heed.

Let others boast ther bit o' bra.s.s, That's moor nor aw can do; Aw'm n.o.bbut one o'th' working cla.s.s, 'At's strugglin to pool throo; An' if it's little 'at aw get, It's littie 'at aw need; An' if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit, Aw try to niver heed.

Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts, An' mourn ther sorry fate, Becoss they can't keep sarvent men, An' dine off silver plate; Aw think they'd show more gradely wit To listen to my creed, An' things they find they cannot get, Why, try to niver heed.

Ther's some 'at lang for parks an' halls, An' letters to ther name; But happiness despises walls, It's nooan a child o' fame.

A robe may lap a woeful chap, Whose heart wi grief may bleed, Wol rags may rest on joyful breast, Soa hang it! niver heed!

Th' sun shines as breet for me as them, An' th' meadows smell as sweet, Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead, An' th' flaars smile at mi feet, An' when a hard day's wark is done, Aw ait mi humble feed, Mi appet.i.te's a relish fun, Soa hang it, niver heed.

Sing On.

Sing on, tha bonny burd, sing on, sing on; Aw cannot sing; A claad hings ovver me, do what aw con Fresh troubles spring.

Aw wish aw could, like thee, fly far away, Aw'd leave mi cares an be a burd to-day.

Mi heart war once as full o' joy as thine, But nah it's sad; Aw thowt all th' happiness i'th' world wor mine, Sich faith aw had;-- But he who promised aw should be his wife Has robb'd me o' mi ivery joy i' life.

Sing on: tha cannot cheer me wi' thi song; Yet, when aw hear Thi warblin' voice, 'at rings soa sweet an' strong, Aw feel a tear Roll daan mi cheek, 'at gives mi heart relief, A gleam o' comfort, but it's varry brief.

This little darlin', cuddled to mi breast, It little knows, When snoozlin' soa quietly at rest, 'At all mi woes Are smothered thear, an' mi poor heart ud braik But just aw live for mi wee laddie's sake.

Sing on; an' if tha e'er should chonce to see That faithless swain, Whose falsehood has caused all mi misery, Strike up thy strain, An' if his heart yet answers to thy trill Fly back to me, an' aw will love him still.

But if he heeds thee not, then shall aw feel All hope is o'er, An' he that aw believed an' loved soa weel Be loved noa more; For that hard heart, bird music cannot move, Is far too cold a dwellin'-place for love.

What aw Want.

Gie me a little humble cot, A bit o' garden graand, Set in some quiet an' sheltered spot, Wi' hills an' trees all raand;

An' if besides mi hooam ther flows A little mumuring rill, At sings sweet music as it gooas, Awst like it better still.

Gie me a wife 'at loves me weel, An' childer two or three, Wi' health to sweeten ivery meal, An' hearts brimful o' glee.

Gie me a chonce, wi' honest toil Mi efforts to engage, Gie me a maister who can smile When forkin aght mi wage.

Gie me a friend 'at aw can trust, 'An tell mi secrets to; One tender-hearted, firm an' just, Who sticks to what is true.

Gie me a pipe to smook at neet, A pint o' hooam-brew'd ale, A faithful dog 'at runs to meet Me wi a waggin tail.

A cat to purr o'th' fender rims, To freeten th' mice away; A cosy bed to rest mi limbs Throo neet to commin day.

Gie me all this, an' aw shall be Content, withaat a daat, But if denied, then let me be Content to live withaat.