Yorkshire Ditties, First Series | Page 2

th' Swallow
Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee,
For tha tells ov breeter weather;
But aw connot quite forgi thee,
Connot love thee altogether.
'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome--
'Tis the cheerin news tha brings,
Tellin us fine weather will come,
When we see thi dappled wings.
But aw'd rayther have a sparrow,
Rayther hear a robin twitter;
Tho' they may net be thi marrow,
May net fly wi' sich a glitter;

But they niver leeav us, niver--
Storms may come, but still they stay;
But th' first wind 'at ma's thee
shiver,
Up tha mounts an' flies away.
Ther's too mony like thee, swallow,
'At when fortun's sun shines breet,
Like a silly buzzard follow,
Doncin raand a bit o' leet.
But ther's few like Robin redbreast,
Cling throo days o' gloom an' care;
Soa aw love mi old tried friends
best--
Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.
Plenty o' Brass
A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
It's grand to be able to spend
A trifle sometimes on a glass
For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend
To be able to bury yor neive
Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd
An', 'baght pinchin', be able to
save
A wee bit for th' time when yor owd.
A'a! it's grand to ha', plenty o' brass!
To be able to set daan yor fooit
Withaght ivver thinkin'--bith' mass!
'At yor wearin' soa mitch off yor booit;
To be able to walk along th'

street,
An' stand at shop windows to stare,
An' net ha' to beat a retreat
If yo' scent a "bum bailey" i' th' air.
A'a I it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
To be able to goa hoam at neet,
An' sit i'th' arm-cheer bith' owd lass,
An' want nawther foir nor leet;
To tak' th' childer a paper o' spice,
Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall;
Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice
For yor friends, if they happen to call.
A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
Then th' parsons'll know where yo' live:
If yo'r' poor, it's mooast
likely they'll pass,
An' call where fowk's summat to give.
Yo' may have a trifle o' sense,
An' yo' may be both upright an' true
But that's nowt, if yo' can't stand
th' expense
Ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew.
A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass!
An' to them fowk at's getten a hoard,
This world seems as smooth as
a glass,
An' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road;
But him 'at's as poor as a
maase,
Or, happen, a little i' debt,
He mun point his noas up to th' big haase,

An' be thankful for what he can get.
A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' chink!
But doan't let it harden yor heart:
Yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance
should think
An' try ta do gooid wi' a part!
An' then, as yor totterin' daan,
An' th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass,
Yo' may find 'at yo've
purchased a craan
Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass.
Th' Little Stranger
Little bonny, bonny babby,
How tha stares, an' weel tha may,
For its but an haar, or hardly,
Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day.
A'a! tha little knows, young moppet,
Ha aw'st have to tew for thee;

May be when aw'm forced to drop it,
'At tha'll do a bit for me.
Are ta maddled, mun, amang it?
Does ta wonder what aw mean?

Aw should think tha does, but dang it!
Where's ta been to leearn to
scream?
That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee!
Dunnot peawt thi lip like that!

Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee,
Feared awst hurt thee, little brat.
Come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother;
Shoo's moor used to sich nor me:

Hands like mine worn't made to bother
Wi sich ginger-breead as
thee.
Innocent an' helpless craytur,
All soa pure an' undefiled!
If ther's

ought belangs to heaven
Lives o'th' eearth, it is a child.
An its hard to think, 'at some day,
If tha'rt spared to weather throo,

'At tha'll be a man, an' someway
Have to feight life's battles too.
Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies,
Once wor nowt noa moor to
see;
An' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows,
Once wor born as
pure as thee.
An' what tha at last may come to,
God aboon us all can tell;
But aw
hope 'at tha'll be lucky,
Even tho aw fail mysel.
Do aw ooin thee? its a pity!
Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat!
Goa an'
snoozle to thi titty
Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.
Babby Burds
Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn,
Across a meadow newly
shorn;
Th' sun wor shinin' breet and clear,
An' fragrant scents rose
up i'th' air,
An' all wor still.
When, as my steps wor idly rovin,
Aw coom upon
a seet soa lovin!
It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin,
As daan aw sank
beside it, kneelin
O'th' edge o'th' hill.
It wor a little skylark's nest,
An' two young babby burds, undrest,

Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa