Yorkshire Ditties, First Series | Page 8

along;--
And if you, wondering, long to know
The history of the three,--
They are the little orphan pair--
The poor old man is me:
And on the little grassy mound
'Neath which their parents sleep,
They bend the knee, and pray for
me;
I pray for them and weep.

Aght o' Wark
Aw've been laikin for ommost eight wick,
An' aw can't get a day's wark to do!
Aw've trailed abaght th' streets
wol awm sick
An' aw've worn mi clog-soils ommost through.
Aw've a wife an' three childer at hooam,
An' aw know they're all lukkin at th' clock,
For they think it's high
time aw should come,
An' bring 'em a morsel 'o jock.
A'a dear! it's a pitiful case
When th' cubbord is empty an' bare;
When want's stamped o' ivery
face,
An' yo hav'nt a meal yo can share.
Today as aw walked into th' street,
Th' squire's carriage went rattlin past;
An' aw thout 'at it hardly luk'd
reet,
For aw had'nt brokken mi fast.
Them horses, aw knew varry weel,
Wi' ther trappins all shinin i' gold,
Had nivver known th' want of a
meal,
Or a shelter to keep 'em thro' th' cold.
Even th' dogs have enuff an' to spare,

Tho' they ne'er worked a day i' ther life;
But ther maisters forget they
should care
For a chap 'at's three bairns an' a wife.
They give dinners at th' hall ivery neet,
An' ther's carriages stand in bi'th scoor,
An' all th' windows are blazin
wi leet,
But they seldom give dinners to th' poor.
I' mi pocket aw hav'nt a rap,
Nor a crust, nor a handful o' mail;
An' unless we can get it o'th strap,
We mun pine, or mun beg, or else stail.
But hoamwards aw'll point mi owd clogs
To them three little lambs an' ther dam;--
Aw wish they wor horses or
dogs,
For its nobbut poor fowk 'at's to clam.
But they say ther is One 'at can see,
An' has promised to guide us safe through;
Soa aw'll live on i'hopes,
an' surelee,
He'll find a chap summat to do.
Another Babby
Another!--well, my bonny lad,
A'w wodn't send thee back;
Altho' we thowt we hadn't raam,
Tha's fun some in a crack.

It maks me feel as pleased as punch
To see thi pratty face;
Ther's net another child i'th bunch
Moor welcome to a place
Aw'st ha' to fit a peark for thee,
I' some nook o' mi cage;
But if another comes, raylee!
Aw'st want a bigger wage.
But aw'm noan feard tha'll ha' to want--
We'll try to pool thee throo,
For Him who has mi laddie sent,
He'll send his baggin too.
He hears the little sparrows chirp,
An' answers th' raven's call;
He'll never see one want for owt,
'At's worth aboon 'em all.
But if one on us 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