Yorkshire Lyrics. John Hartley
'at fell bi ther pride, Jenny,
Wi' charms like thine nivver wor deckt;—
But yond muck 'at's ith' mistal's to side, Jenny,
Aw mun start on or else aw'st get seckt.
Varry sooin aw shall mak thi mi wife, Jenny,
An awr cot shall a paradise be;
Tha shall nivver know trubble or strife, Jenny,
If aw'm able to keep 'em throo thee.
If ther's happiness this side oth' grave, Jenny,
Tha shall sewerly come in for thi share;—
An aw'll tell thi what else tha shall have, Jenny,
When aw've a two-or-three moor minnits to spare.
Nooan so Bad.
This world is net a paradise,
Tho' railly aw dooant see,
What fowk should growl soa mich abaat;—
Its gooid enuff for me.
It's th' only world aw've ivver known,
An them 'at grummel soa,
An praich abaat a better land,
Seem varry looath to goa.
Ther's some things 'at awm apt to think,
If aw'd been th' engineer,
Aw might ha changed—but its noa use—
Aw connot interfere.
We're foorced to tak it as it is;
What faults we think we see;
It mayn't be what it owt to be—
But its gooid enuff for me.
Then if we connot alter things,
Its folly to complain;
To hunt for faults an failins,
Allus gooas agean my grain.
When ther's soa monny pleasant things,
Why should we hunt for pain,
If troubles come, we needn't freeat,
For sunshine follows rain.
If th' world gooas cruckt—what's that to us?
We connot mak it straight;
But aw've come to this conclusion,
'At its th' fowk 'at isn't reight.
If ivverybody 'ud try to do
Ther best wi' th' means they had,
Aw think 'at they'd agree wi' me—
This world is nooan soa bad.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
It's hard what poor fowk mun put up wi'!
What insults an snubs they've to tak!
What bowin an scrapin's expected,
If a chap's a black coit on his back.
As if clooas made a chap ony better,
Or riches improved a man's heart;
As if muck in a carriage smell'd sweeter
Nor th' same muck wod smell in a cart.
Give me one, hard workin, an' honest,
Tho' his clooas may be greasy and coorse;
If it's muck 'at's been getten bi labor,
It doesn't mak th' man onny worse.
Awm sick o' thease simpering dandies,
'At think coss they've getten some brass,
They've a reight to luk daan at th' hard workers,
An' curl up their nooas as they pass.
It's a poor sooart o' life to be leadin,
To be curlin an partin ther hair;
An seekin one's own fun and pleasure,
Nivver thinkin ha others mun fare.
It's all varry weel to be spendin
Ther time at a hunt or a ball,
But if th' workers war huntin an doncin,
Whativer wod come on us all?
Ther's summat beside fun an frolic
To live for, aw think, if we try;
Th' world owes moor to a honest hard worker
Nor it does to a rich fly-bi-sky.
Tho' wealth aw acknowledge is useful,
An' awve oft felt a want on't misen,
Yet th' world withaat brass could keep movin,
But it wodn't do long withaat men.
One truth they may put i' ther meersham,
An smoke it—that is if they can;
A man may mak hooshuns o' riches,
But riches can ne'er mak a man.
Then give me that honest hard worker,
'At labors throo mornin to neet,
Tho' his rest may be little an seldom,
Yet th' little he gets he finds sweet.
He may rank wi' his wealthier brother,
An rank heigher, aw fancy, nor some;
For a hand 'at's weel hoofed wi' hard labor
Is a passport to th' world 'at's to come.
For we know it's a sin to be idle,
As man's days i' this world are but few;
Then let's all wi' awr lot be contented,
An continue to toil an to tew.
For ther's one thing we all may be sure on,
If we each do awr best wol we're here;
'At when th' time comes for reckonin, we're called on,
We shall have varry little to fear.
An at last, when we throw daan awr tackle,
An are biddin farewell to life's stage,
May we hear a voice whisper at partin,
"Come on, lad! Tha's haddled thi wage."
Peevish Poll.
Aw've heeard ov Mary Mischief,
An aw've read ov Natterin Nan;
An aw've known a Grumlin Judy,
An a cross-grained Sarah Ann;
But wi' all ther faults an failins,
They still seem varry tame,
Compared to one aw'll tell yo on,
But aw dursn't tell her name.
Aw'll simply call her Peevish Poll,
That name suits to a dot;
But if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her,
Yo bet, aw'st get it hot.
Shoo's fat an fair an forty,
An her smile's as sweet as spice,
An her voice is low an tender
When shoo's tryin to act nice.
Shoo's lots ov little winnin ways,
'At fit her like a glove;
An fowk say shoo's allus pleasant—
Just a woman they could love.
But if they nobbut had her,
They'd find aght for a start,
It isn't her wi' th' sweetest smile
At's getten th' kindest heart.