Yorkshire Tales Volume II Part 7

Duffin Johnie.

(A Rifleman's Adventure.)

Th' mooin shone breet wi silver leet, An' th' wind wor softly sighin, Th' burds did sleep, an' th' snails did creep, An' th' buzzards wor a flying; Th' daisies donned ther neet caps on, An' th b.u.t.tercups wor weary, When Jenny went to meet her John, Her Rifleman, her dearie.

Her Johnny seemed as brave a lad As iver held a rifle, An' if ther wor owt in him bad, 'Twor n.o.bbut just a trifle He wore a suit o' sooity grey, To show 'at he wor willin To feight for th' Queen and country When perfect in his drillin.

His heead wor raand, his back wor straight, His legs wor long an' steady, His fist wor fully two pund weight, His heart wor true an' ready; His upper lip wor graced at th' top Wi mustache strong and bristlin, It railly wor a spicy crop; Yo'd think to catch him whistlin.

His buzzum burned wi' thowt's o' war, He long'd for battles clatter.

He grieved to think noa foeman dar To cross a sup o' watter; He owned one spot,--an' n.o.bbut one, Within his heart wor tender, An' as his darlin had it fun, He'd be her bold defender.

At neet he donn'd his uniform, War trials to endure, An' helped his comrades brave, to storm A heap ov horse manure!

They said it wor a citidel, Fill'd wi' some hostile power, They boldly made a breach, and well They triumph'd in an hour.

They did'nt wade to th' knees i' blooid, (That spoils one's breeches sadly), But th' pond o' sypins did as gooid, An' scented 'em as badly; Ther wor noa slain to hug away, Noa heeads, noa arms wor wantin, They lived to feight another day, An' spend ther neets i' rantin.

Brave Johnny's rooad wor up a loin Where all wor dark an' shaded, Part gra.s.s, part stooans, part sludge an' slime But quickly on he waded; An' nah an' then he cast his e'e An luk'd behund his shoulder.

He worn't timid, noa net he!

He crack'd, "he knew few bolder."

But once he jumped, an' said "Oh dear!"

Becoss a beetle past him, But still he wor unknown to fear, He'd tell yo if yo asked him; He couldn't help for whispering once, This loin's a varry long un, A chap wod have but little chonce Wi thieves, if here amang em.

An' all at once he heeard a voice Cry out, "Stand and deliver!

Your money or your life, mak choice, Before your brains I shiver;"

He luk'd all raand, but failed to see A sign of livin craytur, Then tremlin dropt upon his knee, Fear stamp'd on ivery faytur.

"Gooid chap," he said, "mi rifle tak, Mi belts, mi ammunition, Aw've nowt but th' clooas at's o' mi back Oh pity mi condition; Aw wish aw'd had a lot o' bra.s.s, Aw'd gie thi ivery fardin; Aw'm n.o.bbut goin to meet a la.s.s, At Tate's berry garden."

"Aw wish shoo wor, aw daoant care where, Its her fault aw've to suffer;"

Just then a whisper in his ear Said, "Johnny, thar't a duffer,"

He luk'd, an' thear claise to him stuck Wor Jenny, burst wi' lafter; "A'a, John," shoo says, "Aw've tried thi pluck, Aw'st think o' this at after."

"An when tha tells what thinga tha'll do, An' booasts o' manly courage, Aw'st tell thi then, as nah aw do, Go hooam an' get thi porrige."

"Why Jenny wor it thee," he said "Aw fancied aw could spy thi, Aw n.o.bbut reckoned to be flaid, Aw did it but to trie thi."

"Just soa," shoo says, "but certain 'tis Aw hear thi heart a beatin, An' tak this claat to wipe thi phiz Gooid gracious, ha tha'rt sweeatin; Thar't brave noa daat, an' tha can crow Like booastin c.o.c.k-a-doodle, But nooan sich men for me, aw vow, When wed, aw'll wed a 'noodle.'

Lost Love.

Shoo wor a bonny, bonny la.s.s Her een as black as sloas, Her hair a flying' thunner claad, Her cheeks a blowing rooas; Her smile coom like a sunny gleam Her cherry lips to curl; Her voice wor like a murm'ring stream At flowed through banks o' pearl.

Aw long'd to claim her for mi own, But nah mi love is crost; An aw mun wander on alooan, An' mourn for her aw've lost.

Aw couldn't ax her to be mine, Wi' poverty at th' door: Aw niver thowt breet een could shine Wi' love for one so poor; But nah ther's summat i' mi breast, Tells me aw miss'd mi way: An' lost that la.s.s I loved th' best Throo fear shoo'd say me nay.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c,

Aw saunter'd raand her cot at morn, An' oft i'th' dark o'th' neet; Aw've knelt mi daan i'th loin to find Prints ov her tiny feet: An' under th' window, like a thief, Aw've crept to hear her spaik, An' then aw've hurried home agean For fear mi heart ud braik.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c,

Another bolder nor misen, Has robb'd me o' mi dear, An' nah aw ne'er may share her joy An' ne'er may dry her tear; But though aw'm heartsick, lone, an' sad, An' though hope's star is set, To know she's lov'd as aw'd ha' lov'd Wod mak me happy yet.

Aw long'd to claim her for, &c,

Th' Traitle Sop.

Once in a little country taan A grocer kept a shop, And sell'd amang his other things, Prime traitle drink and pop,

Teah, coffee, currans, sp.e.n.i.sh juice, Soft soap an' paader blue, Presarves an' pickles, cinnamon, Allspice an' pepper too;

An' hoasts o' other sooarts o' stuff To sell to sich as came, As figs, an' raisens, salt an' spice, Too numerous to name.

One summer's day a waggon stood Just opposite his door, An' th' childer all gaped raand as if They'd ne'er seen one afoor;

An' in it wor a traitle cask, It wor a wopper too, To get it aat they all wor fast Which iver way to do;

But wol they stood an parley'd thear, Th' horse gave a sudden chuck, An' aat it flew, an' bursting threw All th' traitle into th' muck.

Then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands, To them it seem'd rare fun, But th' grocer ommost lost his wits When he saw th' traitle run;

He stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared He wodn't pay a meg, An'th' carter vow'd until he did He wodn't stir a peg.

He said he'd done his business reight, He'd brought it up to th' door, An thear it wor, an' noa fair chap Wad want him to do moor.

But wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore, An' vented aat ther spleen, Th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure, All plaisterd up to th' een,

A neighbor chap saw th' state o' things, An' pitied ther distress, An' begg'd em not to be soa sour Abaat soa sweet a mess;

"An' tha'd be sour," th'owd grocer said, If th' job wor thine, owd lad, An' somdy wanted thee to pay For what tha'd niver had.

"Th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver "My duty's done I hope?

I've brought him traitle, thear it is, An' he mun sam it up."

Soa th' neighbor left em to thersen, He'd nowt noa moor to say, But went to guard what ther wor left, And send th' young brood away:

This didn't suit th' young lads a bit, They didn't mean to stop, They felt detarmin'd 'at they'd get Another traitle sop.

They tried all ways, but th' chap stood firm, They couldn't get a lick, An' some o' th' boldest gate a taste O'th neighbor's walkin sticks

At last one said, I know a plan If we can scheam to do it, We'll knock one daan bang into th' dolt, An' let him roll reight throo it;