Yorkshire Ditties, First Series | Page 9

width of a street;?Aw hope 'at yor Lily's noa war--?Surelee--th' little thing is'nt deead??Tha wod roor, aw think, if tha dar--?What means ta bi shakin thi heead??Well, aw see bi thi sorrowful e'e?At shoo's gooan, an' aw'm soory, but yet,?When youngens like her hap ta dee,?They miss troubles as some live to hit.?Tha mun try an' put up wi' thi loss,?Tha's been praad o' that child, aw mun say,?But give over freatin, becoss?It's for th' best if shoo's been taen away."?"A'a! Daniel, it's easy for thee?To talk soa, becoss th' loss is'nt thine;?But its ommost deeath-blow to me,?Shoo wor prized moor nor owt else 'at's mine;?An' when aw bethink me shoo's gooan,?Mi feelins noa mortal can tell;?Mi heart sinks wi' th' weight ov a stooan,?An' aw'm capped 'at aw'm livin mysel.?Aw shall think on it wor aw to live?To be th' age o' Methusla or moor;?Tho' shoo said 'at aw had'nt to grieve,?We should booath meet agean, shoo wor sure:?An' when shoo'd been dreamin one day,?Shoo said shoo could hear th' angels call;?But shoo could'nt for th' life goa away?Till they call'd for her daddy an' all.?An' as sooin as aw coom thro' my wark,?Shoo'd ha' me to sit bi her bed;.?An' thear aw've watched haars i'th' dark,?An' listened to all 'at shoo's said;.?Shoo's repeated all th' pieces shoo's learnt,?When shoo's been ov a Sundy to th' schooil,?An ax'd me what dift'rent things meant,?Woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill?An' when aw've been gloomy an' sad,?Shoo's smiled an' taen hold o' mi hand,?An whispered, 'yo munnot freat, dad;?Aw'm gooin to a happier land;?An' aw'll tell Jesus when aw get thear,?'At aw've left yo here waitin his call;?An' He'll find yo a place, niver fear,?For ther's room up i' heaven for all.'?An' this mornin, when watchin th' sun rise,?Shoo said, 'daddy, come nearer to me,?Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes,?An' aw find at aw hardly can see.--?Gooid bye!--kiss yor Lily agean,--?Let me pillow mi heead o' yor breast!?Aw feel now aw'm freed thro' mi pain;?Then Lily shoo went to her rest."
My Native Twang
They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap,?An owt to goa to th' schooil?To leearn to talk like other fowk,?An' net be sich a fooil;?But aw've a noashun, do yo see,?Although it may be wrang,?The sweetest music is to me,?Mi own, mi native twang.
An' when away throo all mi friends,?I' other taans aw rooam,?Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends?For what aw've left at hooam;?But as aw hurry throo ther streets?Noa matter tho aw'm thrang,?Ha welcome if mi ear but greets?Mi own, mi native twang.
Why some despise it, aw can't tell,?It's plain to understand;?An' sure aw am it saands as weel,?Tho happen net soa grand.?Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged,?They call that vulgar slang;?But if aw tell 'em they're engaged,?That's net mi native twang.
Mi father, tho' he may be poor,?Aw'm net ashamed o' him;?Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf,?An tho' her een are dim;?Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk?Its crucken'd streets amang;?For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk?Mi own, mi native twang.
Aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk?Say boldly what they meean;?For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck,?May be ther hearts are cleean,?An' them 'at country fowk despise,?Aw say, "Why, let' em hang;"?They'll niver rob mi sympathies?Throo thee, mi native twang,
Aw like to see grand ladies,?When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine;?Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en?Throo th' carriage winders shine:?Mi mother wor a woman,?An' tho' it may be wrang,?Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them?'At tawk mi native twang.
Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one;?Gooid luck to them 'ats brass;?Gooid luck an' better times to come?To them 'ats poor--alas!?An' may health, wealth, an' sweet content?For iver dwell amang?True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,?At tawk mi native twang.
Shoo's thi Sister
(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push?a poor little girl off the pavement.)
Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister,
Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags;?On her feet ther's monny a blister:
See ha painfully shoo drags?Her tired limbs to some quiet corner:?Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her.
Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin,
Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor;?Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin--
Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor;?Schooil'd for years her grief to smother,?Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother.
Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin,?A kid glove o' awther hand,?Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin--?Shoo's thi sister, understand:?Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters,?Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters?
Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin,
An' ha pale her little face,?An' her hair neglected, showin
Her's has been a sorry case;?O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet,?When tha shov'd her into th' street
Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater
Nor thisen wi' all thi brass,?Him, awr blessed Mediator,--
Wod He scorn that little lass??Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em,?An' His hands divine caress'd 'em.
Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net
Some regret for