Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series | Page 2

Aw can treat mi old mates wi' a glass;
An' aw sha'nt ha' to come
home an' tell
My old lass, ha' aw've shut all mi brass.
Some fowk say, when a
chap's getten wed,
He should nivver keep owt thro' his wife;
If he does awve oft heard
'at it's sed,
'At it's sure to breed trouble an' strife;
If it does aw'm net baan to
throw up,
Tho' aw'd mich rayther get on withaat;
But who wodn't risk a blow

up,
For a paand 'at th' wife knows nowt abaat.
Aw hid it i' th' coil hoil last neet,
For fear it dropt aat o' mi fob,
Coss aw knew, if shoo happened to see
't,
At mi frolic wod prove a done job.
But aw'll gladden mi een wi' its
face,
To mak sure at its safe in its nick;--
But aw'm blest if ther's owt left i'
th' place!
Why, its hook'd it as sure as aw'm wick.
Whear its gooan to's a puzzle
to me,
An' who's taen it aw connot mak aat,
For it connot be th' wife, coss
you see
It's a paand 'at shoo knew nowt abaat.
But thear shoo is, peepin' off th' side,
An' aw see'at shoo's all on a grin;
To chait her aw've monny a time
tried,
But I think it's nah time to give in.
A chap may be deep as a well,
But a woman's his maister when done;
He may chuckle and flatter
hissel,
But he'll wakken to find at shoo's won.
It's a rayther unpleasant affair,
Yet it's better it's happened noa daat;
Aw'st be fain to come in for a
share

O' that paand at th' wife knows all abaat.
Latter Wit.
Awm sittin o' that old stooan seeat,
Wheear last aw set wi' thee;
It seems long years sin' last we met,
Awm sure it must be three.
Awm wond'rin what aw sed or did,
Or what aw left undone:
'At made thi hook it, an' get wed,
To one tha used to shun.
Aw dooant say awm a handsom chap,
Becoss aw know awm net;
But if aw wor 'ith' mind to change,
He isn't th' chap, aw'll bet.
Awm net a scoller, but aw know
A long chawk moor ner him;
It couldn't be his knowledge box
'At made thi change thi whim.
He doesn't haddle as mich brass
As aw do ivery wick:
An' if he gets a gradely shop,
It's seldom he can stick.
An' then agean,--he goes on th' rant;
Nah, that aw niver do;--
Aw allus mark misen content,
Wi' an odd pint or two.

His brother is a lazy lout,--
His sister's nooan too gooid,--
Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,--
Vice seems to run ith' blooid.
An yet th'art happy,--soa they say,
That caps me moor ner owt!
Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,
Nor iver awst ha' thowt.
Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,
Befoor yo'd getten wed;
Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho
Aw dooant know what he sed.
But he'd his arm araand thi waist,
An tho' thi face wor hid,
Aw'll swear aw saw him kuss thi:--
That's what aw niver did.
Aw thowt tha'd order him away,
An' mak a fearful row,
But tha niver tuk noa nooatice,
Just as if tha didn't know.
Awm hawf inclined to think sometimes,
Aw've been a trifle soft,
Aw happen should a' dun't misen?
Aw've lang'd to do it oft.
Thar't lost to me, but if a chonce
Should turn up by-an-by,
If aw get seck'd aw'll bet me booits,

That isn't t'reason why.
My Gronfayther's Days.
A'a, Jonny! a'a Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!
But come thi ways to
me, an' sit o' mi knee,
For it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha
says:--
Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronofayther's days.
When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then,
But nahdays they
owt to be 'shamed o' thersen;
For they smook, an' they drink, an' get
other bad ways;
Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.
Aw remember th' furst day aw went a coortin' a bit,
An' walked aght
thi granny;--awst niver forget;
For we blushed wol us faces wor all in
a blaze;--
It wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's nooa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed;
They've false teeth i'
ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead; They're a make up o' buckram,
an' waddin', an' stays,
But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.
At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor,
But nah a fair dealer
can't keep oppen th' door;
He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he
pays;
Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah,
But ther's varry few left
'at con fodder a caah;
An' ther's telegraff poles all o'th edge o'th'
highways,
Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.
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