Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series | Page 3

be thankful for blessin's at's sent,
An' aw hooap 'at tha'll
allus be blessed wi' content;
Tha mun make th' best tha con o' this
world wol tha stays,
But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's
days.
Heart Brocken.
He wor a poor hard workin lad,

An' shoo a workin lass:
An' hard they tew'd throo day to day,
For varry little brass.
An' oft they tawk'd o'th' weddin' day,
An' lang'd for th' happy time,
When poverty noa moor should part,
Two lovers i' ther prime.
But wark wor scarce, an' wages low
An' mait an' drink wor dear,
They did ther best to struggle on,
As year crept after year.
But they wor little better off,
Nor what they'd been befoor;
It tuk 'em all ther time to keep
Grim Want aatside 'oth' door.
Soa things went on, wol Hope at last,
Gave place to dark despair;
They felt they'd nowt but lovin hearts,
An' want an toil to share.
At length he screw'd his courage up
To leave his native shore;
An' goa where wealth wor worshipped less,
An' men wor valued moor.
He towld his tale;--poor lass!--a tear
Just glistened in her e'e;
Then soft shoo whispered, "please thisen,
But think sometimes o' me:
An' whether tha's gooid luck or ill,
Tha knows aw shall be glad
To see thee safe at hooam agean,
An' welcome back mi lad."

"Awl labor on, an' do mi best;
Tho' lonely aw must feel,
But awst be happy an content
If tha be dooin weel.
But ne'er forget tho' waves may roll,
An' keep us far apart;
Thas left a poor, poor lass behind,
An taen away her heart."
"Dost think 'at aw can e'er forget,
Wheariver aw may rooam,
That bonny face an' lovin heart,
Awve prized soa dear at hoam?
Nay lass, nooan soa, be sure o' this,
'At till next time we meet
Tha'll be mi first thowt ivery morn,
An' last thowt ivery neet."
He went a way an' years flew by,
But tidins seldom came;
Shoo couldn't help, at times, a sigh,
But breathed noa word o' blame;
When one fine day a letter came,
'Twor browt to her at th' mill,
Shoo read it, an' her tremlin bands,
An' beating heart stood still.
Her fellow workers gathered raand
An caught her as shoo fell,
An' as her heead droop'd o' ther arms,
Shoo sighed a sad "farewell.
Poor lass! her love had proved untrue,
He'd play'd a traitor's part,
He'd taen another for his bride,

An' broke a trustin heart."
Her doleful story sooin wor known,
An' monny a tear wor shed;
They took her hooam an' had her laid,
Upon her humble bed;
Shoo'd nawther kith nor kin to come
Her burial fees to pay;
But some poor comrade's undertuk,
To see her put away.
Each gave what little helps they could,
From aat ther scanty stoor;
I' hopes 'at some at roll'd i' wealth
Wod give a trifle moor.
But th' maisters ordered 'em away,
Abaat ther business, sharp!
For shoo'd deed withaat a nooatice,
An' shoo hadn't fell'd her warp.
To a Daisy,
Found blooming March 7th.
A'a awm feeared tha's come too sooin,
Little daisy!
Pray, whativer wor ta doin?
Are ta crazy?
Winter winds are blowin' yet,
Tha'll be starved, mi
little pet.
Did a gleam'o' sunshine warm thee,
An deceive thee?
Niver let appearance charm thee,
For believe me,
Smiles tha'll find are oft but snares,
Laid to catch

thee unawares.
Still aw think it luks a shame,
To tawk sich stuff;
Aw've lost faith, an tha'll do th' same,
Hi, sooin enuff:
If tha'rt happy as tha art
Trustin' must be th' wisest
part.
Come, aw'll pile some bits o' stooan,
Raand thi dwellin';
They may screen thee when aw've gooan
Ther's no tellin';
An' when gentle spring draws near
Aw'll release
thee, niver fear.
An' if then thi pratty face,
Greets me smilin';
Aw may come an' sit bith' place,
Time beguilin';
Glad to think aw'd paar to be,
Ov some use, if but to
thee.
A Bad Sooart.
Aw'd raythur face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin' at mi heead;
Aw'd
raythur track a madman's steps,
Whearivei they may leead;
Aw'd
raythur ventur in a den,
An' stail a lion's cub:
Aw'd raythur risk the
foamin wave
In an old leaky tub;
Aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th
fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted
man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.
A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A
lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim;
Bullets may pass
yo harmless by,
An' leave all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake
the sky,
An' spare yo when they've past;
Yo' may o'ercome mooast

fell disease;
Make poverty yo'r friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted
man,
Noa mortal can contend.
Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;

He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair;
He leads
yo' on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend.
He get's yo'
once within his coils,
An' crushes yo' ith' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd,
gooas prowlin' aat,
An' seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint,
compared to some,
'At's th' luk