Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series | Page 4

to be i' power.
All we Had.
It worn't for her winnin ways,
Nor for her bonny face
But shoo wor th' only lass we had,
An that quite alters th' case.
We'd two fine lads as yo need see,
An' weel we love 'em still;
But shoo war th' only lass we had,
An' we could spare her ill.
We call'd her bi mi mother's name,
It saanded sweet to me;
We little thowt ha varry sooin
Awr pet wod have to dee.
Aw used to watch her ivery day,
Just like a oppenin bud;
An' if aw couldn't see her change,
Aw fancied' at aw could.
Throo morn to neet her little tongue

Wor allus on a stir;
Awve heeard a deeal o' childer lisp,
But nooan at lispt like her.
Sho used to play all sooarts o' tricks,
'At childer shouldn't play;
But then, they wor soa nicely done,
We let her have her way.
But bit bi bit her spirits fell,
Her face grew pale an' thin;
For all her little fav'rite toys
Shoo didn't care a pin.
Aw saw th' old wimmin shak ther heeads,
Wi monny a doleful nod;
Aw knew they thowt shoo'd goa, but still
Aw couldn't think shoo wod.
Day after day my wife an' me,
Bent o'er that suff'rin child,
Shoo luk'd at mammy, an' at me,
Then shut her een an' smiled.
At last her spirit pass'd away;
Her once breet een wor dim;
Shoo'd heeard her Maker whisper
'come,'
An' hurried off to Him.
Fowk tell'd us t'wor a sin to grieve,
For God's will must be best;
But when yo've lost a child yo've loved,

It puts yor Faith to th' test.
We pick'd a little bit o' graand,
Whear grass and daisies grew,
An' trees wi spreeadin boughs aboon
Ther solemn shadows threw.
We saw her laid to rest, within
That deep grave newly made;
Wol th' sexton let a tear drop fall,
On th' handle ov his spade.
It troubled us to walk away,
An' leeav her bi hersen;
Th' full weight o' what we'd had to bide,
We'd niver felt till then.
But th' hardest task wor yet to come,
That pang can ne'er be towld;
'Twor when aw feszend th' door at
nee't,
An' locked her aat i'th' cowld.
'Twor then hot tears roll'd daan mi cheek,
'Twor then aw felt mooast sad;
For shoo'd been sich a tender plant,
An' th' only lass we had.
But nah we're growin moor resign'd,
Although her face we miss;
For He's blest us wi another,
An we've hopes o' rearin this,

Give it 'em Hot.
Give it 'em hot, an be hanged to ther feelins!
Souls may be lost wol yor choosin' yor words!
Out wi' them doctrines
'at taich o' fair dealins!
Daan wi' a vice tho' it may be a lord's!
What does it matter if truth be
unpleasant?
Are we to lie a man's pride to exalt!
Why should a prince be excused,
when a peasant
Is bullied an' blamed for a mich smaller fault?
O, ther's too mich o' that sneakin and bendin;
An honest man still should be fearless and bold;
But at this day fowk
seem to be feeared ov offendin,
An' they'll bow to a cauf if it's nobbut o' gold.
Give me a crust tho' it's
dry, an' a hard 'en,
If aw know it's my own aw can ait it wi' glee;
Aw'd rayther bith hauf
work all th' day for a farden,
Nor haddle a fortun wi' bendin' mi knee.
Let ivery man by his merit be tested,
Net by his pocket or th' clooas on his back;
Let hypocrites all o' ther
clooaks be divested,
An' what they're entitled to, that let em tak.
Give it 'em hot! but
remember when praichin,
All yo 'at profess others failins to tell,
'At yo'll do far moor gooid wi'
yor tawkin an' taichin,

If yo set an example, an' improve yorsel.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
It's hard what poor fowk mun put u'p wi'!
What insults an' snubs they've to tak!
What bowin an' scrapin's
expected,
If a chap's a black coit on his back.
As if clooas made a chap ony
better,
Or riches improved a man's heart,
As if muck in a carriage smell'd
sweeter
Nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart.
Give me one, hard workin, an' honest,
Tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse;
If it's muck 'ats been getten
bi labor,
It does'nt mak th' man ony worse.
Awm sick o' thease simpering
dandies,
'At think coss they've getten some brass,
They've a reight to luk daan
at th' hard workers,
An' curl up their nooas as they pass.
It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin,
To be curlin an' partin ther hair;
An' seekin one's own fun and
pleasure,
Niver thinkin ha others mun fare.
It's all varry weel to be spendin
Ther time at a hunt or a ball,
But if th' workers