Yorksher Puddin'. John Hartley
I'd have them leave thy sheltering wing,
And nevermore to dare
To stand within thy courts of praise,
Or taint thy house of prayer.
Oh! dear old Church of England,
That points the way to Heaven!
Amid a sad, sad world of sin
The truly, only leaven.
We leave thee to our Father's care,
Who knows thy needs the best,
Convinced that He, by aid of thee,
Will leaven all the rest.
When he'd finished they all knocked ther glasses on th' table bi way ov applaudin, which th' lonlady hearin, at once coom in an' ax'd if they wor "callin?" an' as all wor empty, shoo luk'd varry hard at th' cheerman, an' he nodded "as befoor," soa shoo gethered up th' empties, an' called for Liza "to bring in them glasses," which wor at once done, an' showd a gooid deal o' foreseet on her part i' havin 'em ready.
When all had getten sarved wi' hot watter, an' given ovver crushin sugar, th' cheerman announced 'at it wor Mr. Standhen's call, soa up jumped Standhen, an' said "he couldn't do better nor call owd Mosslump for a song." Some moor applause followed this, but they didn't knock th' tables wi' ther glasses this time, becoss they wor too full. Mosslump stood up, wiped his maath wi' th' corners ov his necktie, turned up his e'en as if he wor gooin to depart this life i' peace, an' in a voice, time, an' manner peculiarly his own he sung—
Mistress Moore is Johnny's wife,
An' Johnny is a druffen sot;
He spends th' best portion ov his life
I'th beershop wi' a pipe an' pot.
At schooil together John an' me
Set side by side like trusty chums,
An' niver did we disagree
Till furst we met sweet Lizzy Lumbs.
At John shoo smiled,
An' aw wor riled;
Shoo showed shoo loved him moor nor me
Her bonny e'en
Aw've seldom seen
Sin' that sad day shoo slighted me.
Aw've heeard fowk say shoo has to want,
For Johnny ofttimes gets o'th spree;
He spends his wages in a rant,
An' leeaves his wife to pine or dee.
An' monny a time aw've ligged i' bed,
An' cursed my fate for bein poor,
An' monny a bitter tear aw've shed,
When thinkin ov sweet Mistress Moore.
For shoo's mi life
Is Johnny's wife,
An' tho' to love her isn't reet,
What con aw do,
When all th' neet throo
Aw'm dreeamin ov her e'en soa breet.
Aw'll goa away an' leeave this spot,
For fear 'at we should iver meet,
For if we did, as sure as shot
Awst throw me daan anent her feet.
Aw know shoo'd think aw wor a fooil,
To love a woman when shoo's wed,
But sin' aw saw her furst at schooil,
It's been a wretched life aw've led.
But th' time has come
To leeave mi hooam,
An' th' sea between us sooin shall roar,
Yet still mi heart
Will niver part
Wi' th' image ov sweet Mistress Moore.
Long befoor he'd done th' chaps had begun tawkin, some abaat politics an some abaat Knursticks, an' when he sat daan th' cheerman wor th' only quiet chap i' th' lot, an' he wor ommost asleep; but Mosslump comforted hissen wi' whisperin to me 'at classical mewsic wor varry little thowt on, an' after a sigh, a sup, a shake ov his head, an' another leet for his pipe, he sat daan evidently detarmined not to be suited wi' owt i' th' singin way that neet. After th' cheerman had wakken'd up, two or three called for "Cocky," an' this time he gate up withaat ony excuses, an' although he did rock backards an' forrads like a clock pendlum th' wrang end up, yet aw must say he entered life an' soul into what he had to do, an' in a voice 'at seemed three times too big for the size ov his carcass he sang—
Lord John and John Lord were both born on a day,
But their fortunes were different quite;
Lord John was decked out in most gorgeous array,
As soon as he first saw the light.
But poor Johnny Lord, it's true on my word,
He'd no clothes to step into at all;
He'd no flannel to wrap, he'd no nightgown or cap,
But was rolled in his poor mother's shawl.
Now, it seems very strange, yet it's true what I say
And I hope you're not doubting my word;
And I'll tell what took place in a general way,
With Lord John and with poor Johnny Lord
The nurse took Lord John, and the doctors stood round,
And examined the child and his clothes;
Whilst a fussy physician, with looks most profound,
Wiped his aristocratical nose.
"It is, I declare, most uncommonly fair,
And its voice, oh! how sweet when it cries;
It really would seem like the child of a dream,
Or an angel just dropt from the skies."
Now, it seems very strange, &c.
Now, poor Johnny Lord and his mother were laid,
Both fainting and cold on the straw;
No doctors would come there unless they were paid,
Or compelled to be there by the law.
No comforting word heard poor Mistress Lord,
As o'er her babe bending she sat,
And each one who saw it cried with one accord,
"What a little detestable brat."
Now, it seems very strange, &c.
The two babes became men as the years rolled away.
And Lord John sported carriage and pair,
Whilst poor Johnny Lord working hard for poor pay,
Was content with what fell to his share.
Lord John went to races, to balls and to routs,
And squandered his wealth with the gay,
Till at last came the reaper, and sought them both out,
And took Lord John and John Lord away.
Now, it seems very strange, &c.
Very soon a grand monument stood o'er Lord John,
To show where the great man was laid,
But over John Lord was no mark and no stone,
It was left as when left by the spade.
But the time yet shall come when John Lord and Lord John
Shall meet in the realms far away,
When the riches and titles of earth are all gone,
Then which will be greatest, friends, say?
Then,