Yorkshire Tales Volume II Part 4

Advice to Jenny.

Jenny, Jenny, dry thi ee, An' dunnot luk soa sad; It grieves me varry mich to see Tha freeats abaat yon lad; For weel tha knows, withaat a daat, Wheariver he may be, Tho fond o' rammellin' abaat, He's allus true to thee.

Tha'll learn mooar sense, la.s.s, in a while, For wisdom comes wi' time, An' if tha lives tha'll leearn to smile At troubles sich as thine; A faithful chap is better far, Altho' he likes to rooam, Nor one 'at does what isn't reight, An' sits o'th' hearth at hooam.

Tha needn't think 'at wedded life Noa disappointment brings; Tha munnot think to keep a chap Teed to thi app.r.o.n strings: Soa dry thi een, they're varry wet, An' let thi heart be glad, For tho' tha's wed a rooamer, yet, Tha's wed a honest lad.

Ther's mony a lady, rich an' great, 'At's sarvents at her call, Wod freely change her grand estate For thine tha thinks soa small: For riches cannot buy content, Soa tho' thi joys be few, Tha's one ther's nowt con stand anent,-- A heart 'at's kind an' true.

Soa when he comes luk breet an' gay, An' meet him wi' a kiss, Tha'll find him mooar inclined to stay Wi treatment sich as this; But if thi een luk red like that, He'll see all's wrang at once, He'll leet his pipe, an' don his hat, An' bolt if he's a chonce.

Ther's mich Expected.

Life's pathway is full o' deep ruts, An' we mun tak gooid heed lest we stumble; Man is made up of "ifs" and of "buts,"

It'seems pairt ov his natur to grumble.

But if we'd anxiously tak To makkin' things smooth as we're able, Ther'd be monny a better clooath'd back, An' monny a better spread table.

It's a sad state o' things when a man Connot put ony faith in his brother, An' fancies he'll chait if he can, An' rejoice ovver th' fall ov another.

An' it's sad when yo see some 'at stand High in social position an' power, To know at ther fortuns wor plann'd An' built, aght o'th' wrecks o' those lower.

It's sad to see luxury rife, An' fortuns being thowtlessly wasted; While others are wearin' aat life, With the furst drops o' pleasure untasted.

Some in carriages rollin' away, To a ball, or a rout, or a revel; But their chariots may bear 'em some day Varry near to the gates ov the devil.

Oh! charity surely is rare, Or ther'd net be soa monny neglected; For ther's lots wi enuff an' to spare, An' from them varry mich is expected.

An' tho' in this world they've ther fill Of its pleasures, an' wilfully blinded, Let deeath come--as surely it will-- They'll be then ov ther duties reminded.

An' when called on, they, tremblin' wi' fear, Say "The hungry an' nak'd we ne'er knew,"

That sentence shall fall on their ear-- "Depart from me; I never knew you."

Then, oh! let us do what we can, Nor with this world's goods play the miser; If it's wise to lend money to man, To lend to the Lord must be wiser.

A Strange Stooary.

Aw know some fowk will call it crime, To put sich stooaries into ryhme, But yet, contentedly aw chime Mi simple ditty: An if it's all a waste o' time, The moor's the pity.

O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet, Wi' reekin heead and weary feet, A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet; He made mi start; But pluckin up, aw did him greet Wi beatin heart.

His dress wor black as black could be, An th' latest fas.h.i.+on aw could see, But yet they hung soa dawderly, Like suits i' shops; Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three Sich legs i'th' slops.

Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rather late For one at's dress'd i' sich a state, Across this Slack to mak ther 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 pa.s.s, 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 d.y.k.e."

"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 d.a.m.nation 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 par- Sons 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 n.o.bbut do as others do, Yo may depend on't.