Yorkshire Tales Volume I Part 2

So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, Aw'll tew for thine and thee, An' seek for comfort when cast daan, I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e."

The 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 woll 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 'as maks 'em grand They niver 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, For hauf-a-craan a wick.

Poor la.s.sie wan, &c.

Aw envy net fowks' better lot-- Aw should'nt like to swap.

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

Th' First o'th Sooart

Aw heeard a funny tale last neet-- Aw could'nt howd fro' laffin-- 'Twor at th' Bull's Heead we chonced to meet, An' spent an haar i' chaffin.

Some sang a song, some cracked a joak, An' all seem'd full o' larkin; An' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, An' ivery e'e'd a spark in.

Long Joa 'at comes thro th' Jumples cluff, Wor gettin rayther mazy; An' Warkus Ned had supped enuff To turn they're Betty crazy;-- An Bob at lives at th' Bogeggs farm, Wi' Nan throo th' b.u.t.tress Bottom, Wor treating her to summat wanm, (It's just his way,--"odd drot em!")

An' Jack o'th' Slade wor theear as weel, An' Joa o' Abe's throo Waerley; An' Lijah off o'th' Lavver Hill, Wor pa.s.sing th' ale raand rarely.-- Throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, To hear or tell a stoory; But th' gem o' all aw heard last neet Wor one bi Dooad o'th' gloory.

He bet his booits 'at it wor true, An' all seem'd to believe him; Tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue-- But 't wodn't ha done to grieve him His uncle lived i' Pudsey taan, An' practised local praichin; An' if he 're lucky, he wor baan To start a schooil for taichin.

But he wor takken varry ill; He felt his time wor comin: (They say he brought it on hissel Wi' studdyin his summin.) He call'd his wife an' neighbors in To hear his deein sarmon, An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin Ther lot ud be a warm en.

Then turin raand unto his wife, Said--"Mal, tha knows, owd craytur, If awd been bless'd wi' longer life, Aw might ha' left things straighter.

Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence-- Aw lent it him last lovefeast."

Says Mal--"He has'nt lost his sense-- Thank G.o.d for that at least!"

"An Ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, We owe him one paand ten.".-- "Just hark!" says Mally, "there he goas!

He's ramellin agean!

Dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk!

Yo see, poor thing, he's ravin!

It cuts me up to hear sich talk-- He spent his life i' savin!

"An, Mally, la.s.s," he said agean, "Tak heed o' my direction: Th' schooil owes us hauf a craan--aw mean My share o'th' last collection.-- Tha'll see to that, an have what's fair When my poor life is past."-- Says Mally, "listen, aw declare, He's sensible to th' last."

He shut his een an' sank to rest-- Deeath seldom claimed a better: They put him by,--but what wor th' best, He sent 'em back a letter, To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; An' ha he gate to enter; An' gave 'em rules to act upon If ever they should ventur.

Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand: Says he, "What do you want, sir?

If to goa in--yo understand Unknown to me yo can't sir.-- Pray what's your name? where are yo throo?

Just make your business clear."

Says he, "They call me Parson Drew, Aw've come throo Pudsey here."

"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say?

Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; Aw've kept thease doors too long a day, Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir."

Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, For th' sake o' all ther's in it: If yo've a map o' England by, Aw'll show yo in a minit."

Soa Peter gate a time-table-- They gloored o'er th' map together: Drew did all at he wor able, But could'nt find a stiver.

At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall, An thear stands Braforth mission: It's just between them two--that's all: Your map's an old edition.

But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, An' if yo've niver known it, Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan, Tho mony be 'at scorn it."

He oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "It's time Some body coom--aw'll trust thee.

Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine-- Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey."

Lines, on finding a b.u.t.terfly in a weaving shed.

Nay surelee tha's made a mistak; Tha'rt aght o' thi element here; Tha may weel goa an' peark up oth' thack, Thi bonny wings shakin wi fear.

Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms Saand queer sooart o' music to thee; An' tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes O' miln-grease,--what th' quality be.

Maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us, An' thinks we're a low offald set But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, For ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet.

Tha wor n.o.bbut a worm once thisen, An' as humble as humble could be; An' tho we nah are like tha wor then, We may yet be as n.o.bby as thee.

Tha'd to see thi own livin when young, An' when tha grew up tha'd to spin; An' if labor like that worn't wrong, Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'

But tha longs to be off aw con tell; For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content: Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window--farewell!

Off tha goas, bonny fly!--An' it went.

Uncle Ben

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben As iver lived ith' fowd: He made a fortun for hissen, An' lived on't when he'r owd.

His yed wor like a snow drift, An' his face wor red an' breet, An' his heart wor like a feather, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas He'd worn sin aw wor bred; An' th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, An' th' same hat for his yed; His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing Throo braik o' day till neet; His conscience niver felt a sting, For he did the thing 'at's reet.

He wod'nt swap his humble state Wi' th' grandest fowk i' th' land; He niver wanted silver plate, Nor owt 'at's rich and grand; He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk Drawn raand him ov a neet, But he slept noa war for th' want o' that, For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.

Owd fowk called him "awr Benny,"

Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"-- An' th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad,"