Yorkshire Tales Volume I Part 1

Yorks.h.i.+re Ditties.

First Series.

by John Hartley.

Bite Bigger

As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark, (Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,) Aw happen'd to hear a remark, 'At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan-- It wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd, An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck, An' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd, It saanded like nowt but ill luck; When two little lads, donn'd i' rags, Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet, Coom trapesin away ower th' flags, Booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet.-- Th' owdest mud happen be ten, Th' young en be hauf on't,--noa moor; As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen, G.o.d help fowk this weather 'at's poor!

Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand, An' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be; 'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand, An' they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee: An' he sed, "Come on, Billy, may be We shall find summat else by an by, An' if net, tha mun share thease wi me When we get to some spot where its dry."

Leet-hearted they trotted away, An' aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad; But aw thowt awd nee'er seen sich a day-- It worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad.

Sooin th' big en agean slipt away, An' sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck, An' he cried aght, "Luk here, Bill! to-day Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck?

Here's a apple! an' th' mooast on it's saand: What's rotten aw'll throw into th' street-- Worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand?

Nah booath on us con have a treat."

Soa he wiped it, an' rubb'd it, an' then Sed, Billy, "thee bite off a bit; If tha hasn't been lucky thisen Tha shall share wi' me sich as aw get."

Soa th' little en bate off a touch, T'other's face beamed wi' pleasur all throo, An' he said, "Nay, tha hasn't taen much, Bite agean, an' bite bigger; nah do!"

Aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,-- Thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me!

Tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor: Th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee!

Tuppince wur all th' bra.s.s aw had, An' awd ment it for ale when coom nooin, But aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad, He desarves it for what he's been dooin; Soa aw sed, "Lad, here's tuppince for thee, For thi sen,"--an' they stared like two geese, But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, "Nah, it'll just be a penny a piece."

"G.o.d bless thi! do just as tha will, An' may better days speedily come; Tho' clam'd, an' hauf donn'd, mi lad, still Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nur some."

To th' Swallow

Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, For tha tells ov breeter weather; But aw connot quite forgi thee, Connot love thee altogether.

'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome-- 'Tis the cheerin news tha brings, Tellin us fine weather will come, When we see thi dappled wings.

But aw'd rayther have a sparrow, Rayther hear a robin twitter; Tho' they may net be thi marrow, May net fly wi' sich a glitter;

But they niver leeav us, niver-- Storms may come, but still they stay; But th' first wind 'at ma's thee s.h.i.+ver, Up tha mounts an' flies away.

Ther's too mony like thee, swallow, 'At when fortun's sun s.h.i.+nes breet, Like a silly buzzard follow, Doncin raand a bit o' leet.

But ther's few like Robin redbreast, Cling throo days o' gloom an' care; Soa aw love mi old tried friends best-- Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare.

Plenty o' Bra.s.s

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' bra.s.s!

It's grand to be able to spend A trifle sometimes on a gla.s.s For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend To be able to bury yor neive Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd An', 'baght pinchin', be able to save A wee bit for th' time when yor owd.

A'a! it's grand to ha', plenty o' bra.s.s!

To be able to set daan yor fooit Withaght ivver thinkin'--bith' ma.s.s!

'At yor wearin' soa mitch off yor booit; To be able to walk along th' street, An' stand at shop windows to stare, An' net ha' to beat a retreat If yo' scent a "b.u.m bailey" i' th' air.

A'a I it's grand to ha' plenty o' bra.s.s!

To be able to goa hoam at neet, An' sit i'th' arm-cheer bith' owd la.s.s, An' want nawther foir nor leet; To tak' th' childer a paper o' spice, Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice For yor friends, if they happen to call.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' bra.s.s!

Then th' parsons'll know where yo' live: If yo'r' poor, it's mooast likely they'll pa.s.s, An' call where fowk's summat to give.

Yo' may have a trifle o' sense, An' yo' may be both upright an' true But that's nowt, if yo' can't stand th' expense Ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' bra.s.s!

An' to them fowk at's getten a h.o.a.rd, This world seems as smooth as a gla.s.s, An' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road; But him 'at's as poor as a maase, Or, happen, a little i' debt, He mun point his noas up to th' big haase, An' be thankful for what he can get.

A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' c.h.i.n.k!

But doan't let it harden yor heart: Yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think An' try ta do gooid wi' a part!

An' then, as yor totterin' daan, An' th' last grains o' sand are i'th gla.s.s, Yo' may find 'at yo've purchased a craan Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor bra.s.s.

Th' Little Stranger

Little bonny, bonny babby, How tha stares, an' weel tha may, For its but an haar, or hardly, Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day.

A'a! tha little knows, young moppet, Ha aw'st have to tew for thee; May be when aw'm forced to drop it, 'At tha'll do a bit for me.

Are ta maddled, mun, amang it?

Does ta wonder what aw mean?

Aw should think tha does, but dang it!

Where's ta been to leearn to scream?

That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee!

Dunnot peawt thi lip like that!

Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee, Feared awst hurt thee, little brat.

Come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother; Shoo's moor used to sich nor me: Hands like mine worn't made to bother Wi sich ginger-breead as thee.

Innocent an' helpless craytur, All soa pure an' undefiled!

If ther's ought belangs to heaven Lives o'th' eearth, it is a child.

An its hard to think, 'at some day, If tha'rt spared to weather throo, 'At tha'll be a man, an' someway Have to feight life's battles too.

Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies, Once wor nowt noa moor to see; An' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows, Once wor born as pure as thee.

An' what tha at last may come to, G.o.d aboon us all can tell; But aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky, Even tho aw fail mysel.

Do aw ooin thee? its a pity!

Hus.h.!.+ nah prathi dunnot freat!

Goa an' snoozle to thi t.i.tty Tha'rt too young for trouble yet.

Babby Burds

Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, Across a meadow newly shorn; Th' sun wor s.h.i.+nin' breet and clear, An' fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, An' all wor still.

When, as my steps wor idly rovin, Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin!

It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin O'th' edge o'th' hill.

It wor a little skylark's nest, An' two young babby burds, undrest, Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, Callin' for mammy to provide Ther mornin's meal; An' high aboon ther little hooam, Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom, Ringin' soa sweetly o' mi ear, Like breathins thro' a purer sphere, He sang soa weel.