Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series | Page 7

faith in his brother,?An' fancies he'll chait if he can,
An' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.
An' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand
High in social position an' power,?To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd
An' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower.
It's sad to see luxury rife,
An' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted;?While others are wearin' aat life,
With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.
Some in carriages rollin' away,
To a ball, or a rout, or a revel;?But their chariots may bear 'em some day
Varry near to the gates ov the devil.
Oh! charity surely is rare,
Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected;?For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare,
An' from them varry mich is expected.
An' tho' in this world they've ther fill
Of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded,?Let deeath come--as surely it will--
They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.
An' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear,
Say "The hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew,"?That sentence shall fall on their ear--
"Depart from me; I never knew you."
Then, oh! let us do what we can,
Nor with this world's goods play the miser;?If it's wise to lend money to man,
To lend to the Lord must be wiser.
A Strange Stooary.
Aw know some fowk will call it crime,
To put sich stooaries into ryhme,?But yet, contentedly aw chime
Mi simple ditty:?An if it's all a waste o' time,
The moor's the pity.

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,?Wi' reekin heead and weary feet,?A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet;
He made mi start;?But pluckin up, aw did him greet
Wi beatin heart.
His dress wor black as black could be,?An th' latest fashion aw could see,?But yet they hung soa dawderly,
Like suits i' shops;?Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three
Sich legs i'th' slops.
Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rather late?For one at's dress'd i' sich a state,?Across this Slack to mak ther gate:
Is ther some pairty??Or does ta allus dress that rate--
Black duds o'th' wairty?"
He twisted raand as if to see?What sooart o' covy aw cud be,?An' grinned wi sich a maath at me,
It threw me sick!?"Lor saves!" aw cried, "an' is it thee
At's call'd ow'd Nick!"
But when aw luk'd up into th' place,?Whear yo'd expect to find a face;?A awful craytur met mi gaze,
It took mi puff:?"Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass,
Aw've seen enough!"
Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear,?He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear,?An' soa aw stop't a bit to hear
What things he'd ax;?But as he spake his, teeth rang clear,
Like knick-a-nacks.
"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee?Net knowin sich a chap as me;?For oft when tha's been on a spree,
Aw've been thear too;?But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee,
Tha's just edged throo.
Mi name is Deeath--tha needn't start,?And put thi hand upon thi heart,?For tha ma see 'at aw've noa dart
Wi which to strike;?Let's sit an' tawk afoor we part,
O'th edge o'th dyke."
"Nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad,?For Bobby Burns tells me tha had?A scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, Gad!
Tha worn't dress'd?I' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad
Across thi breast!"
"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat?To find me' wanderin abaght;?But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat
A job to do;?Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat,
Mi arrows too."
"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,?'At fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?"?"Noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see
When th' truth aw tell!?Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,
Thev kill thersel.
They do it too at sich a rate?Wol mi owd system's aght o' date;?What we call folly, they call fate;
An' all ther pleasur?Is ha' to bring ther life's estate
To th' shortest measur.
They waste ther time, an' waste ther gains,?O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains,?Thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains,
For ever swimmin,?An' if a bit o' sense remains,
It's fun i'th wimmen.
Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft,?Nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft,?E'er made as monny deead or daft,
As Gin an' Rum,?An' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft
At me, bi gum!
But if they thus goa on to swill,?They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill,?For give a druffen chap his fill,
An sooin off pops he,?An teetotal fowk moor surely still,
Will dee wi th' dropsy.
It's a queer thing at sich a nation?Can't use a bit o' moderation;?But one lot rush to ther damnation
Through love o'th bottle:?Wol others think to win salvation
Wi being teetotal."
Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead,?"Tak my advice, young chap," he sed,?"Let liquors be, sup ale asteead,
An' tha'll be better,?An' dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard
Like a dead letter."
"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say,?Yo come to fotch us chaps away!?But this seems strange, soa tell me pray,
Ha wor't yo coom??Wor it to tell us keep away,
Yo hav'nt room?"
"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar?But tha'll find spirits worse bi far?Sarved aght i' monny a public bar,
At's thowt quite lawful;?Nor what tha'll find i'th' places parSons
call soa awful."
"Gooid bye!" he sed, an'