Yorkshire Lyrics. John Hartley
Well, awm fond o' rabbit pie.
Aw dooan't want th' world to misen, mun,
Awm nooan like a dog i'th' manger;
Yet still 'twor happen best to run,
For tha'rt th' safest aght o' danger.
An sometimes fowks' inclination
Leads 'em to do what they shouldn't;—
But tha's saved me a temptation—
Aw've net harmed thi, 'coss aw couldn't.
Aw wish all temptations fled me,
As tha's fled throo me to-day;
For they've oft to trouble led me,
For which aw've had dear to pay.
An a taicher wise aw've faand thi,
An this lesson gained throo thee;
'At when dangers gether raand me,
Th' wisest tactics is to flee.
They may call thi coward, Bunny,
But if mine had been thy lot,
Aw should fail to see owt funny,
To be stewin in a pot.
Life to thee, awm sewer is sweeter,
Nor thi flesh to me could prove;
May thy lot an mine grow breeter,
Blest wi' liberty an love.
Nivver Heed.
Let others boast ther bit o' brass,
That's moor nor aw can do;
Aw'm nobbut one o'th' workin class,
'At's strugglin to pool throo;
An if it's little 'at aw get,
It's little 'at aw need;
An if sometimes aw'm pinched a bit,
Aw try to nivver heed.
Some fowk they tawk o' brokken hearts,
An mourn ther sorry fate,
Becoss they can't keep sarvent men,
An dine off silver plate;
Aw think they'd show more gradely wit
To listen to my creed,
An things they find they connot get,
Why, try to nivver heed.
Ther's some 'at lang for parks an halls,
An letters to ther name;
But happiness despises walls,
It's nooan a child o' fame.
A robe may lap a woeful chap,
Whose heart wi' grief may bleed,
Wol rags may rest on joyful breast,
Soa hang it! nivver heed!
Th' sun shines as breet for me as them,
An' th' meadows smell as sweet,
Th' larks sing as sweetly o'er mi heead,
An th' flaars smile at mi feet.
An when a hard day's wark is done,
Aw ait mi humble feed;
Mi appetite's a relish fun,
Soa hang it, nivver heed.
Gronfayther's Days.
'A, Johnny! A'a, Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!
But come thi ways to me, an sit o' mi knee;
For it's shockin to hearken to th' words 'at tha says;—
Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronfayther's days.
When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then;
But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen;
For they smook, an they drink, an get other bad ways;
Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.
Aw remember th' furst day aw went cooartin a bit—
An walked aght thi gronny;—aw'st nivver forget;
For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;—
It wor noa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days,
Ther's noa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed;
They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead;
They're a mak-up o' buckram, an waddin, an stays—
But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.
At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor,
But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door;
He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays;
Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's chimleys an factrys i' ivvery nook nah,
But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah;
An ther's telegraff poles all o'th' edge o'th' highways,
Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.
We're tell'd to be thankful for blessin's 'at's sent,
An aw hooap 'at tha'll alius be blessed wi' content;
Tha mun mak th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays,
But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.
Awr Dooad.
Her ladyship's getten a babby—
An they're makkin a famous to do—
They say—Providence treated her shabby—
Shoo wor fairly entitled to two.
But judgin bi th' fuss an rejoicin,
It's happen as weel as it is;
For they could'nt mak moor ov a hoilful,
Nor what they are makkin o' this.
He's heir to ther titles an riches,
Far moor nor he ivver can spend;
Wi' hard times an cold poverty's twitches,
He'll nivver be called to contend.
Life's rooad will be booarded wi' flaars,
An pleasur will wait on his train,
He can suck at life's sweets, an its saars
Will nivver need cause him a pain.
Aw cannot help thinkin ha diff'rent
It wor when awr Dooady wor born;
Aw'd to tramp fifteen mile throo a snow storm,
One bitterly, cold early morn.
Aw'd to goa ax old Mally-o'th'-Hippins,
If shoo'd act as booath doctor an nurse;—
An God bless her! shoo sed, "Aye, an welcome,"
Tho' aw had'nt a meg i' mi purse.
'Twor hard scrattin to get what wor needed,
But we managed someha, to pool throo';
An what we wor short we ne'er heeded,
For that child fun us plenty to do.
But we'd health, an we loved one another,
Soa things breetened up after a while;
An nah, that young lad an his mother,
Cheer mi on wi' ther prattle an smile.
Them at th' Hall, may mak feeastin an bluster,
An ther table may grooan wi' its