Yorkshire Tales Volume I Part 5

An' mony a time too, after then, Did that gentleman tak up his stand At that crossing an' watch for hissen The work ov that little black hand.

An' when-years had gone by, he expressed 'At i'th' spite ov all th' taichin he'd had, An' all th' lessons he'd leearn'd, that wor th' best 'At wor towt by that poor little lad.

Tho' the proud an' the wealthy may prate, An' booast o' ther riches and land, Some o'th' laadest ul sink second-rate To that lad with his little black hand.

Lilly's Gooan

"Well, Robert! what's th' matter! nah mun, Aw see 'at ther's summat nooan sweet; Thi een luk as red as a sun-- Aw saw that across th' width of a street; Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war-- Surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead?

Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar-- What means ta bi shakin thi heead?

Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e At shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet, When youngens like her hap ta dee, They miss troubles as some live to hit.

Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss, Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say, But give over freatin, becoss It's for th' best if shoo's been taen away."

"A'a! Daniel, it's easy for thee To talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine; But its ommost deeath-blow to me, Shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine; An' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan, Mi feelins noa mortal can tell; Mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan, An' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel.

Aw shall think on it wor aw to live To be th' age o' Methusla or moor; Tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve, We should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure: An' when shoo'd been dreamin one day, Shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call; But shoo could'nt for th' life goa away Till they call'd for her daddy an' all.

An' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark, Shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed; An' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark, An' listened to all 'at shoo's said; Shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt, When shoo's been ov a Sundy to th' schooil, An ax'd me what dift'rent things meant, Woll aw felt aw wor n.o.bbut a fooill An' when aw've been gloomy an' sad, Shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand, An whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad; Aw'm gooin to a happier land; An' aw'll tell Jesus when aw get thear, 'At aw've left yo here waitin his call; An' He'll find yo a place, niver fear, For ther's room up i' heaven for all.

An' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise, Shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me, Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes, An' aw find at aw hardly can see.-- Gooid bye!--kiss yor Lily agean,-- Let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast!

Aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain; Then Lily shoo went to her rest."

My Native Tw.a.n.g

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap, An owt to goa to th' schooil To leearn to talk like other fowk, An' net be sich a fooil; But aw've a noashun, do yo see, Although it may be wrang, The sweetest music is to me, Mi own, mi native tw.a.n.g.

An' when away throo all mi friends, I' other taans aw rooam, Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends For what aw've left at hooam; But as aw hurry throo ther streets Noa matter tho aw'm thrang, Ha welcome if mi ear but greets Mi own, mi native tw.a.n.g.

Why some despise it, aw can't tell, It's plain to understand; An' sure aw am it saands as weel, Tho happen net soa grand.

Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, They call that vulgar slang; But if aw tell 'em they're engaged, That's net mi native tw.a.n.g.

Mi father, tho' he may be poor, Aw'm net ashamed o' him; Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, An tho' her een are dim; Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk Its crucken'd streets amang; For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk Mi own, mi native tw.a.n.g.

Aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk Say boldly what they meean; For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, May be ther hearts are cleean, An' them 'at country fowk despise, Aw say, "Why, let' em hang;"

They'll niver rob mi sympathies Throo thee, mi native tw.a.n.g,

Aw like to see grand ladies, When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en Throo th' carriage winders shine: Mi mother wor a woman, An' tho' it may be wrang, Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'At tawk mi native tw.a.n.g.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one; Gooid luck to them 'ats bra.s.s; Gooid luck an' better times to come To them 'ats poor--alas!

An' may health, wealth, an' sweet content For iver dwell amang True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk, At tawk mi native tw.a.n.g.

Shoo's thi Sister

(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; On her feet ther's monny a blister: See ha painfully shoo drags Her tired limbs to some quiet corner: Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.

Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin-- Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor; Schooil'd for years her grief to smother, Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother.

Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, A kid glove o' awther hand, Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-- Shoo's thi sister, understand: Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?

Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin, An' ha pale her little face, An' her hair neglected, showin Her's has been a sorry case; O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, When tha shov'd her into th' street

Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater Nor thisen wi' all thi bra.s.s, Him, awr blessed Mediator,-- Wod He scorn that little la.s.s?

Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em, An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.

Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net Some regret for what tha's done, If tha con pa.s.s on, an' cares net For that sufferin' little one; Then ha'iver poor shoo be, Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee.

Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, To awr duties here below!

For we're forced to leave behind us All awr pomp, an' all awr show: Why then should we slight another?

Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother.

Persevere.

What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo, Let us buckle to awr wark, For ther's lots o' jobs to do: Tho' all th' world luks dark an' drear, Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

He's a fooil 'at sits an' mumps 'Coss some troubles hem him raand!

Man mud allus be i'th dumps, If he sulk'd coss fortun fraand; Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:-- Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

If we think awr lot is hard, Niver let us mak a fuss; Lukkin raand, at ivery yard, We'st find others war nor us; We have still noa cause to fear!

Let's ha' faith, an' persevere.

A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, Niver won a lady fair: Have a will! yo'll find a way!

Honest men ne'er need despair.

Better days are drawin' near:-- Then ha' faith, an' persevere.

Workin men,--nah we've a voice, An' con help to mak new laws; Let us iver show awr choice Lains to strengthen virtue's cause, Wrangs to reighten,--griefs to cheer; This awr motto--'persevere.'

Let us show to foreign empires Loyalty's noa empty booast; We can scorn the thirsty vampires If they dar molest awr cooast: To awr Queen an' country dear Still we'll cling an' persevere.

But as on throo life we hurry, By whativer path we rooam, Let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, True reform begins at hooam: Then, to prove yorsens sincere, Start at once; an' persevere.

Hard wark, happen yo may find it, Some dear folly to forsake, Be detarmined ne'er to mind it!

Think, yor honor's nah at stake.

Th' gooid time's drawin varry near!

Then ha' faith, an' persevere.

To a Roadside Flower

Tha bonny little pooasy! aw'm inclined To tak thee wi' me: But yet aw think if tha could spaik thi mind, Tha'd ne'er forgie me; For I' mi jacket b.u.t.ton-hoil tha'd quickly dee, An' life is short enough, boath for mi-sen an' thee.

Here, if aw leeave thee bi th' rooadside to flourish, Whear scoors may pa.s.s thee, Some heart 'at has few other joys to cherish May stop an' bless thee: Then bloom, mi little pooasy! Tha'rt a beauty, Sent here to bless: Smile on--tha does thi duty.

Aw wodn't rob another of a joy Sich as tha's gien me; For aw felt varry sad, mi little doy Until aw'd seen thee.

An' may each pa.s.sin', careworn, lowly brother, Feel cheered like me, an' leave thee for another.

Prose. Hartley's Cream of Wit and Humour