Yorkshire Tales Volume II Part 3

For 'tisn't th' wealth one may possess Can purchase pleasures true; For he's th' best chonce o' happiness, Whose wants are small an' few.

What it is to be Mother.

A'a, dear! what a life has a mother!

At leeast, if they're hamper'd like me, Thro' mornin' to neet ther's some bother, An' ther will be, aw guess, wol aw dee.

Ther's mi chap, an misen, an' six childer, Six o'th' roughest, aw think, under th' sun, Aw'm sartin sometimes they'd bewilder Old Joab, wol his patience wor done.

They're i' mischief i' ivery corner, An' ther tongues they seem niver at rest; Ther's one shaatin' "Little Jack Horner,"

An' another "The realms o' the blest."

Aw'm sure if a body's to watch 'em, They mun have een at th' back o' ther yed; For quiet yo niver can catch 'em Unless they're asleep an' i' bed.

For ther's somdy comes runnin to tell us 'At one on em's takken wi' fits; Or ther's two on 'em feightin for th' bellus, An' rivin' ther clooas all i' bits.

In a mornin' they're all weshed an' tidy'd, But bi nooin they're as black as mi shoe; To keep a lot cleean, if yo've tried it, Yo know 'at ther's summat to do.

When my felly comes hooam to his drinkin', Aw try to be gradely, an' straight; For when all's nice an' cleean, to mi thinkin', He enjoys better what ther's to ait.

If aw tell him aw'm varry near finished Wi allus been kept in a fuss, He says, as he looks up astonished, "Why, aw niver see owt 'at tha does."

But aw wonder who does all ther mendin', Weshes th' clooas, an cleans th' winders an' flags?

But for me they'd have noa spot to stand in-- They'd be lost i' ther filth an' ther rags.

But it allus wor soa, an' it will be, A chap thinks' at a woman does nowt; But it ne'er bothers me what they tell me, For men havn't a morsel o' thowt.

But just harken to me wol aw'm tellin'

Ha aw tew to keep ivery thing straight; An' aw'l have yo for th' judge if yor willin', For aw want nowt but what aw think's reight.

Ov a Monday aw start o' my wes.h.i.+n', An' if th' day's fine aw get um all dried; Ov a Tuesday aw fettle mi kitchen, An' mangle, an' iron beside.

Ov a Wednesday, then aw've mi bakin'; Ov a Thursday aw reckon to brew; Ov a Friday all th' carpets want shakin', An' aw've th' bedrooms to clean an' dust throo.

Then o'th' Setterday, after mi markets, St.i.tch on b.u.t.tons, an' th' stockins' to mend, Then aw've all th' Sundy clooas to luk ovver, An' that brings a week's wark to its end.

Then o'th' Sundy ther's cooking 'em th' dinner, It's ther only warm meal in a wick; Tho' ther's some say aw must be a sinner, For it's paving mi way to Old Nick.

But a chap mun be like to ha' summat, An' aw can't think it's varry far wrang, Just to cook him an' th' childer a dinner, Tho' it may mak me rayther too thrang.

But if yor a wife an' a mother, Yo've yor wark an' yor duties to mind; Yo mun leearn to tak nowt as a bother, An' to yor own comforts be blind.

But still, just to seer all ther places, When they're gethred raand th' harston at neet, Fill'd wi six roosy-red, smilin' faces; It's nooan a despisable seet.

An, aw connot help thinkin' an' sayin', (Tho' yo may wonder what aw can mean), 'At if single, aw sooin should be playin'

Coortin tricks, an' be weddin' agean.

What is It.

What is it maks a crusty wife Forget to scold, an' leeave off strife?

What is it smoothes the rooad throo life?

It's sooap.

What is it maks a gaumless m.u.f.f Grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff, Woll better men can't get enough?

It's sooap.

What is it, if it worn't theear, Wod mak some fowk feel varry queer, An' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere?

It's sooap.

What is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow, To goa to th' church, becoss they know 'At th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa?

It's sooap.

What is it gains fowk invitations, Throo them 'at live i' lofty stations?

What is it wins mooast situations?

It's sooap.

What is it men say they detest, Yet alus like that chap the best 'At gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest?

It's sooap.

What is it, when the devil sends His agents raand to work his ends, What is it gains him lots o' friends?

It's sooap.

What is it we should mooast despise, An' by its help refuse to rise, Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes?

It's sooap.

What is it, when life's wastin' fast, When all this world's desires are past, Will prove noa use to us at last?

It's sooap.

Come thi Ways!

Bonny la.s.sie, come thi ways, An' let us goa together!

Tho' we've met wi stormy days, Ther'll be some sunny weather: An' if joy should spring for me, Tha shall freely share it; An' if trouble comes to thee, Aw can help to bear it.

Tho thi mammy says us nay, An' thi dad's unwillin'; Wod ta have me pine away Wi' this love 'at's killin'?

Come thi ways, an' let me twine Mi arms once moor abaght thee; Weel tha knows mi heart is thine, Aw couldn't live withaat thee.

Ivery day an' haar 'at slips, Some pleasure we are missin', For those bonny rooasy lips Aw'm niver stall'd o' kissin', If men wor wise to walk life's track Withaat sith joys to glad 'em, He must ha' made a sad mistak 'At gave a Eve to Adam.