Yorkshire Ditties, First Series | Page 8

mun goa short,
(Although it's hard to pine,)?Thy little belly shall be fill'd
Whativer comes o' mine.
A chap con nobbut 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 lasses
An' some honest lads behind.
An' tho' noa coat ov arms may grace
For me, a sculptor'd stooan,?Aw hope to leave a noble 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 God 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 butter 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' brass?'At's getten all th' pleasure, net it!?When aw'm smookin a pipe wi' th' owd lass,?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 nobbut' 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' nobs,?'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.
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