Yorkshire Tales Volume I Part 4

Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick, An' aw can't get a day's wark to do!

Aw've trailed abaght th' streets wol awm sick An' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through.

Aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam, An' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock, For they think it's high time aw should come, An' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.

A'a dear! it's a pitiful case When th' cubbord is empty an' bare; When want's stamped o' ivery face, An' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.

Today as aw walked into th' street, Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past; An' aw thout 'at it hardly luk'd reet, For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.

Them horses, aw knew varry weel, Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold, Had nivver known th' want of a meal, Or a shelter to keep 'em thro' th' cold.

Even th' dogs have enuff an' to spare, Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life; But ther maisters forget they should care For a chap 'at's three bairns an' a wife.

They give dinners at th' hall ivery neet, An' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor, An' all th' windows are blazin wi leet, But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.

I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap, Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail; An' unless we can get it o'th strap, We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.

But hoamwards aw'll point mi owd clogs To them three little lambs an' ther dam;-- Aw wish they wor horses or dogs, For its n.o.bbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.

But they say ther is One 'at can see, An' has promised to guide us safe through; Soa aw'll live on i'hopes, an' surelee, He'll find a chap summat to do.

Another Babby

Another!--well, my bonny lad, A'w wodn't send thee back; Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam, Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch To see thi pratty face; Ther's net another child i'th bunch Moor welcome to a place

Aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee, I' some nook o' mi cage; But if another comes, raylee!

Aw'st want a bigger wage.

But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want-- We'll try to pool thee throo, For Him who has mi laddie sent, He'll send his baggin too.

He hears the little sparrows chirp, An' answers th' raven's call; He'll never see one want for owt, 'At's worth aboon 'em all.

But if one on us mun goa short, (Although it's hard to pine,) Thy little belly shall be fill'd Whativer comes o' mine.

A chap con n.o.bbut do his best, An' that aw'll do for thee, Leavin to providence all th' rest, An' we'st get help'd, tha'll see.

An' if thi lot's as bright an' fair As aw could wish it, lad, Tha'll come in for a better share Nor iver blessed thi dad.

Aw think aw'st net ha' lived for nowt, If, when deeath comes, aw find Aw leave some virtuous la.s.ses An' some honest lads behind.

An' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace For me, a sculptor'd stooan, Aw hope to leave a n.o.ble race, Wi arms o' flesh an' booan.

Then cheer up, lad, tho' things luk black, Wi' health, we'll persevere, An' try to find a brighter track-- We'll conquer, niver fear!

An may G.o.d shield thee wi' his wing, Along life's stormy way, An' keep thi heart as free throo sin, As what it is to-day.

Th' Little Black Hand

Ther's a spark just o'th tip o' mi pen, An' it may be poetical fire; An' suppoase 'at it is'nt--what then?

Wod yo bawk a chap ov his desire?

Aw'm detarmined to scribble away-- Soa's them 'at's a fancy con read; An' tho aw turn neet into day, If aw'm suitin an odd en, neer heed!

Aw own ther's mich pleasure i' life; But then ther's abundance o' care, An' them 'at's contented wi' strife May allus mak sure o' ther share.

But aw'll laff woll mi galluses braik, Tho mi bed's net as soft as spun silk; An' if b.u.t.ter be aght o' mi raik, Aw'll ma' th' best ov a drop o' churn milk.

It's nooan them 'at's getten all th' bra.s.s 'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!

When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd la.s.s, Aw con thoil 'em whativer they get.

But sometimes when aw'm walkin throo th' street, An' aw see fowk hauf-clam'd, an' i' rags, Wi noa bed to lig daan on at neet But i'th' warkus, or th' cold-lukkin flags;

Then aw think, if rich fowk n.o.bbut' knew What ther brothers i' poverty feel, They'd a trifle moor charity show, An' help 'em sometimes to a meal.

But we're all far too fond of ussen, To bother wi' things aght o'th' seet; An' we leeav to ther fate sich as them 'At's noa bed nor noa supper' at neet.

But ther's mony a honest heart throbs, Tho' it throbs under rags an' i' pains, 'At wod'nt disgrace one o'th' n.o.bs, 'At booasts better blooid in his veins.

See that child thear! 'at's working away, An' sweepin that crossin i'th' street: He's been thear iver sin it coom day, An' yo'll find him thear far into th' neet.

See what hundreds goa thowtlessly by, An' ne'er think o' that child wi' his broom!

What care they tho' he smothered a sigh, Or wiped off a tear as they coom.

But luk! thear's a man wi' a heart!

He's gien th' poor child summat at last: Ha his een seem to twinkle an' start, As he watches th' kind gentleman past!

An' thear in his little black hand He sees a gold sovereign shine!

He thinks he ne'er saw owt soa grand, An' he says, "Sure it connot be mine!"

An' all th' lads cluther raand him i' glee, An' tell him to cut aght o'th seet; But he clutches it fast,--an' nah see Ha he's threedin his way along th' street,

Till he comes to that varry same man, An' he touches him gently o'th' back, An' he tells him as weel as he can, 'At he fancies he's made a mistak.

An' th' chap luks at that poor honest lad, With his little naked feet, as he stands, An' his heart oppens wide--he's soa glad Woll he taks one o'th little black hands,

An' he begs him to tell him his name: But th' child glances timidly raand-- Poor craytur! he connot forshame To lift up his een off o'th graand.

But at last he finds courage to spaik, An' he tells him they call him poor Joa; 'At his mother is sickly an' waik; An' his father went deead long ago;

An' he's th' only one able to work Aght o' four; an' he does what he can, Thro' early at morn till it's dark: An' he hopes 'at he'll sooin be a man.

An' he tells him his mother's last word, As he starts for his labour for th' day, Is to put 'all his trust in the Lord, An' He'll net send him empty away.--

See that man! nah he's wipin his een, An' he gives him that bright piece o' gowd; An' th' lad sees i' that image o'th Queen What 'll keep his poor mother thro' th' cowd.