Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series | Page 8

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' off he shot,
Leavin behind him sich a lot

O' smook, as blue as it wor hot!
It set me stewin!
Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot
Ov us own brewin.

If when yo've read this stooary through,
Yo daat if it's exactly true,

Yo'll nobbut do as others do,
Yo may depend on't.
Blow me! aw ommost daat it too,
So thear's an end on't
Take Heart.
Roughest roads, we often find,
Lead us on to th' nicest places;
Kindest hearts oft hide behind
Some o'th' plainest-lukkin faces.

Flaars' whose colors breetest are,
Oft delight awr wond'ring seet;
But thers others, humbler far,
Smell a thaasand times as sweet.
Burds o' monny color'd feather,
Please us as they skim along,
But ther charms all put together,
Connot equal th' skylark's song.
Bonny women--angels seemin,--
Set awr hearts an' brains o' fire;
But its net ther beauties; beamin,
Its ther gooidness we admire.
Th' bravest man 'at's in a battle,
Isn't allus th' furst i'th' fray;
He best proves his might an' mettle,
Who remains to win the day.
Monkey's an' vain magpies chatter,
But it doesn't prove em wise;
An it's net wi noise an' clatter,
Men o' sense expect to rise.
'Tisn't them 'at promise freely,
Are mooast ready to fulfill;
An' 'tisn't them 'at trudge on dreely
'At
are last at top o'th' hill.
Bad hauf-craans may pass as payment,
Gaudy flaars awr een beguile;
Women may be loved for raiment,

Show may blind us for a while;
But we sooin grow discontented,
An' for solid worth we