Yorkshire Ditties, First Series | Page 5

warblin melody;
Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet
Saands sweeter, lad, to me.

An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan,
A claat is noa disgrace;
Tha'll niver find a heart moor warm
Beat under silk or lace.
Then settle daan, tak my advice,
Give up this wish to rooam!
An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice
Worth stoppin' for at hooam."
"God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e,
An' gi'e us howd thi hand!
For words like thoase, throo sich as thee,
What mortal could withstand!
It isn't mich o'th' world aw know,
But aw con truly say,
A faithful heart's too rich to throw
Withaat a thowt away.
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 lassie 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 lassie 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 lassie 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 lass,

For hauf-a-craan a wick.
Poor lassie 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' brass
Aw'd think o' them 'at's poor;
Aw'd have yo' childer workin' less,
An' mak yor wages moor.
Poor lassie 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 lassie 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' Buttress 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 passing 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 God 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, lass," 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