Yorkshire Ditties, First Series | Page 6

his een an' sank to rest--
Deeath seldom claimed a better:

They put him by,--but what wor th' best,
He sent 'em back a letter,

To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on;
An' ha he gate to enter;
An' gave
'em rules to act upon
If ever they should ventur.
Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand:
Says he, "What do you want, sir?

If to goa in--yo understand
Unknown to me yo can't sir.--
Pray
what's your name? where are yo throo?
Just make your business
clear."
Says he, "They call me Parson Drew,
Aw've come throo
Pudsey here."
"You've come throo Pudsey, do you say?
Doant try sich jokes o' me,
sir;
Aw've kept thease doors too long a day,
Aw can't be fooiled bi
thee, sir."
Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie,
For th' sake o' all ther's
in it:
If yo've a map o' England by,
Aw'll show yo in a minit."
Soa Peter gate a time-table--
They gloored o'er th' map together:

Drew did all at he wor able,
But could'nt find a stiver.
At last says
he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall,
An thear stands Braforth mission:
It's
just between them two--that's all:
Your map's an old edition.
But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan,
An' if yo've niver known it,
Yo've
miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan,
Tho mony be 'at scorn it."
He
oppen'd th' gate,--says he, "It's time
Some body coom--aw'll trust thee.

Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine--
Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come
throo Pudsey."
Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed,
Nay surelee tha's made a mistak;
Tha'rt aght o' thi element here;
Tha may weel goa an' peark up oth'

thack,
Thi bonny wings shakin wi fear.
Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms
Saand queer sooart o' music to thee;
An' tha'll hardly quite relish th'
perfumes
O' miln-grease,--what th' quality be.
Maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us,
An' thinks we're a low offald set
But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does,
For ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet.
Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen,
An' as humble as humble could be;
An' tho we nah are like tha wor
then,
We may yet be as nobby as thee.
Tha'd to see thi own livin when young,
An' when tha grew up tha'd to spin;
An' if labor like that worn't
wrong,
Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'
But tha longs to be off aw con tell;
For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content:
Soa aw'll oppen thee th'
window--farewell!
Off tha goas, bonny fly!--An' it went.
Uncle Ben

A gradely chap wor uncle Ben
As iver lived ith' fowd:
He made a fortun for hissen,
An' lived on't when he'r owd.
His yed wor like a snow drift,
An' his face wor red an' breet,
An' his heart wor like a feather,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.
He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas
He'd worn sin aw wor bred;
An' th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd
tooas,
An' th' same hat for his yed;
His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing
Throo braik o' day till neet;
His conscience niver felt a sting,
For he did the thing 'at's reet.
He wod'nt swap his humble state
Wi' th' grandest fowk i' th' land;
He niver wanted silver plate,
Nor owt 'at's rich and grand;
He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk
Drawn raand him ov a neet,
But he slept noa war for th' want o' that,
For he'd done the thing 'at's reet.
Owd fowk called him "awr Benny,"
Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"--
An' th' childer, "gronfather," or
"dad,"
Or what best pleased thersen.
A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face

When he heeard ther patterin feet,
For he loved to laik wi' th' little
bairns
An' he did the thing 'at's reet.
He niver turned poor fowk away
Uncared for throo his door;
He ne'er forgate ther wor a day
When he hissen wor poor;
An' mony a face has turned to Heaven,
All glistenin wi' weet,
An' prayed for blessins on owd Ben,
For he did th' thing 'at's reet.
He knew his lease wor ommost spent,
He'd sooin be called away;
Yet he wor happy an' content,
An' waited th' comin day;
But one dark neet he shut his e'en,
An' slept soa calm an' sweet,
when mornin coom, th' world held one
less,
'At did the thing 'at's reet.
The New Year's Resolve
Says Dick, "ther's a' notion sprung up i' mi yed,
For th' furst time i' th' whole coorse o' mi life,
An' aw've takken a
fancy aw'st like to be wed,
If aw knew who to get for a wife.
Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass,
For aw've nawther to booast on misel;
What aw want is a

warm-hearted, hard-workin' lass,
An' ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell.
To be single is all weel enuf nah an' then,
But it's awk'ard when th' weshin' day comes;
For aw nivver think
sooapsuds agree weel wi' men;
They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs.
An' awm sure it's