Yorkshire Lyrics Poems written in the Dialect as Spoken in the West Riding of Yorkshire. To which are added a Selection of Fugitive Verses not in the Dialect

Author of "Clock Almanack," "Yorkshire Puddin," "Yorkshire Tales" &c, &c,

"It has not been my lot to pore O'er ancient tomes of Classic lore, Or quaff Castalia's springs; Yet sometimes the observant eye May germs of poetry descry In plain and common things."

London: W. Nicholson & Sons, Limited, 26, Paternoster Square, E. C. and Albion Works, Wakefield.

Dedication. To my dear daughter, Annie Sophie, this collection of dialect verses is dedicated, as a token of sincere love. John Hartley. Christmas, 1898.

Contents.

Mi Darling Muse. To a Daisy, Found blooming March 7th. Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass. Give it 'em Hot. A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve. Words ov Kindness. A Brussen Bubble. Th' Little Stranger. Th' Traitle Sop. Once agean Welcome. Still true to Nell. Bide thi Time. A Cold Dooas. A Jolly Beggar. Aw Wodn't for all aw Could See. Come thi Ways! What is it? Awst Nivver be Jaylus. Lamentin' an Repentin'. Bite Bigger. Second Thowts. A Neet when aw've Nowt to do. Ther's much Expected. Coortin Days. Sweet Mistress Moore. Waivin Mewsic. Jimmy's Choice. Old Moorcock. Th' Short-Timer. Sol an' Doll. Their Fred. Love an' Labor. Nooan so Bad. Th' Honest Hard Worker. Peevish Poll. The Old Bachelor's Story. Did yo Ivver! A Quiet Tawk. Lines, on Startling a Rabbit. Nivver Heed. Gronfayther's Days. Awr Dooad. Whear Natur Missed it. That's All. Mary Hanner's Peanner. Grondad's Lullaby. Sixty, Turned, To-day. That Lad Next Door. A Summer Shaar. Awr Lad. Bonny Mary Ann. That Christmas Puddin. A Bad Sooart. Fairly Weel-off. A Warnin. To W. F. Wallett. The Queen's Jester. Lads an Lasses. A New Year's Gift. Matty's Reason. Uncle Ben. A Hawporth. Th' Better Part. Th' Lesser Evil. Take Heart! They all do it. To Let. Lost Love. (appeared twice in the paper book) Drink. Duffin Johnny. (A Rifleman's Adventure.) Plenty o' Brass. The New Year's Resolve. A Strange Stooary. What Wor it? Billy Bumble's Bargain. Aght o' Wark. That's a Fact. Babby Burds. Queen ov Skircoit Green. Th' Little Black Hand. My Native Twang. Sing On. Shoo's thi Sister. Another Babby. To a Roadside Flower. An Old Man's Christmas Morning. Settin Off. To th' Swallow. A Wife. Heart Brokken. Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. Rejected. Persevere. A Pointer. An Acrostic. Help Thisen. Bless 'em! Act Square. His Dowter Gate Wed. All We Had. Th' First o'th Sooart. Poor Old Hat. Done Agean. What it is to be a Mother. What they say. Young Jockey. Missed his Mark. When Lost. Mak a Gooid Start. Stop at Hooam. Advice to Jenny. Jockey an Dolly. Dooant Forget the Old Fowks. Soa Bonny. The Linnet. Mary Jane. Aw Dooant Care. My Lass. A Gooid Kursmiss Day. Mi Love's Come Back. A Wife. All Tawk. Aw Can't Tell. Happen Thine. Contrasts. To Mally. Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion. Try a Smile. Growin Old. Gooid Bye, Old Lad. That Drabbled Brat. Song for th' Hard Times, (1879.) Stir thi Lass! Tother Day. Happy Sam's Song. Gradely Weel off. Is it Reight? A Yorksher Bite. Lily's Gooan. What aw Want. Latter Wit. A Millionaire. Mi Fayther's Pipe. Let th' Lasses Alooan! A Breet Prospect. Missin Yor Way. Heather Bells. A Lucky Dog. My Doctrine. That Lass. Mi Old Umberel What it Comes to. Hold up yer Heeads. A Quiet Day. Lass o'th Haley Hill. Ditherum Dump. My Polly. Love one Another. Dick an Me. Briggate at Setterdy Neet. Awr Annie. Peter Prime's Principles. Cuckoo! Fowk Next Door. Dad's Lad. Willie's Weddin. Somdy's Chonce. To a True Friend. Warmin Pan. It may be Soa. A Safe Investment. Red Stockin. Plain Jane. Cash V. Cupid. Mary's Bonnet. Prime October. Old Dave to th' New Parson. Tom Grit. Th' Demon o' Debt. Th' Lad 'at Loves his Mother. Matilda Jane. Modest Jack o' Wibsey Slack. Work Lads! Bonny Yorksher. Sixty an Sixteen. Come thi Ways in. Horton Tide. Mi Old Slippers. A Friend to Me. A Pair o' Black Een. A Screw Lawse. A Sad Mishap. If. A True Tale. Peter's Prayer. Mak th' Best Ont. On Strike. Be Happy. Its True. Natty Nancy. Fugitive poems. Angels of Sunderland. In Memoriam, June 16th, 1893. Trusting Still. Shiver the Goblet. Little Sunshine. Passing Events. Those Days have Gone. I'd a Dream. To my Harp. Backward Turn, Oh! Recollection. Alice. Looking Back. I Know I Love Thee Bachelors Quest. Waiting at the Gate. Love. Do your Best and Leave the Rest. To my Daughter on her Birthday. Remorse. My Queen Now and Then. The Open Gates. Blue Bells. A Song of the Snow Hide not thy Face. In my Garden of Roses. The Match Girl. De Profundis. Nettie. The Dean's Brother. I Would not Live Alway. Too Late. On the Banks of the Calder. Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post. November's Here. Mary. When Cora Died. The Violet. Repentant. Sunset. Poetry and Prose. Years Ago. Somebody's. Claude. All on a Christmas Morning. Once Upon a Time. Nearing Home. Those Tiny Fingers. Lilly-White Hand. Shut Out. Charming May. Who Cares?

Mi Darling Muse.

Mi darlin' Muse, aw coax and pet her, To pleeas yo, for aw like nowt better; An' if aw find aw connot get her To lend her aid, Into foorced measure then aw set her, The stupid jade!

An' if mi lines dooant run as spreetly, Nor beam wi gems o' wit soa breetly, Place all the blame,--yo'll place it reightly, Upon her back; To win her smile aw follow neetly, Along her track.

Maybe shoo thinks to stop mi folly, An let me taste o' melancholy; But just to spite her awl be jolly, An say mi say; Awl fire away another volley Tho' shoo says "Nay."

We've had some happy times together, For monny years we've stretched our tether, An as aw dunnot care a feather For fowk 'at grummel, We'll have another try. Aye! whether We stand or tummel.

Sometimes th' reward for all us trubble, Has been a crop o' scrunty stubble, But th' harvest someday may be double, At least we'll trust it; An them 'at say it's but a bubble, We'll leeav to brust it.

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 gooanm, Ther's no tellin'; An' when gentle spring draws near Aw'll release thee, niver fear.

An' if then thi pretty face, Greets me smilin'; Aw may come an' sit bith' place, Time beguilin'; Glad to think aw'd paar to be, Of some use, if but to thee.

Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.

Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South, An led a rooamin' life; Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth, Aw've shared wi joy an strife; Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip, Whativver's come to pass: But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship, Has been mi Yorksher Lass.

Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost, A toy for wind an wave; Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost, Aw've thowt noa power could save; But ivver in the darkest day, Wi muscles strong as brass, To some safe port shoo's led the way,-- Mi honest Yorksher Lass.

Shoo's fair,--all Yorksher lasses are,-- Shoo's bonny as the rest, Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care, Shoo thinks what is, is best. Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck, An it seems as clear as glass, 'At th' lad is sewer to meet gooid luck 'At weds a Yorksher Lass.

Ther's oriental beauties, an' Grand fowk ov ivvery grade, But when it comes to honest worth, Shoo puts 'em all ith' shade, For wi her charms an virtues, Shoo stands at top o'th' class; Ther's nooan soa rare as can compare, Wi a bonny Yorksher Lass,

Then here's to th' Yorksher lasses! Whearivver they may be; Ther worth ther's nooan surpasses, An ther's nooan as brave an free! If awd to live life o'er ageean, Awd think misen an ass, If aw didn't tak for company, A bonny Yorksher lass.

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.

A Tale for th' Childer, on Christmas Eve.

Little childer,--little childer; Harken to an old man's ditty; Tho yo live ith' country village,-- Tho yo live ith' busy city. Aw've a little tale to tell yo,-- One 'at ne'er grows stale wi' tellin,-- It's abaat One who to save yo, Here amang men made His dwellin. Riches moor nor yo can fancy,-- Moor nor all this world has in it,-- He gave up becoss He loved yo, An He's lovin yo this minnit. All His power, pomp and glory, Which to think on must bewilder,-- All He left,--an what for think yo? Just for love ov little childer. In a common, lowly stable He wor laid, an th' stars wor twinklin, As if angel's 'een wor peepin On His face 'at th' dew wor sprinklin. An one star, like a big lantern, Shepherds who ther flocks wor keepin, Saw, an foller'd till it rested Just aboon whear He wor sleepin. Then strange music an sweet voices Seem'd to sing reight aght o' Heaven, "Unto us a child is born! Unto us a son is given!" Then coom wise men thro strange nations,-- Young men an men old an hoary,-- An they all knelt daan befoor Him, An araand Him shone a glory. Then a King thowt he wod kill Him, Tho he reckoned net to mind Him, But they went to a strange country, Whear this bad King couldn't find Him. An He grew up strong and sturdy, An He sooin began His praichin, An big craads stood raand to listen, An they wondered at His taichin. Then some sed bad things abaat Him, Called Him names, laft at an jeered Him;-- Sed He wor a base imposter, For they hated, yet they feeard Him. Some believed in His glad tidins,-- Saw Him cure men ov ther blindness,-- Saw Him make once-deead fowk livin, Saw Him full o' love an kindness. Wicked men at last waylaid Him, Drag'd Him off to jail and tried Him, Tho noa fault they could find in Him, Yet they cursed an crucified Him. Nubdy knows ha mich He suffered; But His work on earth wor ended:-- From the grave whear they had laid Him, Into Heaven He ascended. Love like His may well bewilder,-- Sinners weel may bow befoor Him;-- Nah He waits for th' little childer, Up in Heaven whear saints adore Him. Think when sittin raand yor hearthstun, An the Kursmiss bells are ringing, Ha He lived an died at yo may Join those angels in ther singin.